


Relevance (aka, 100 Pieces of Relevance)

by RosaClearwater



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 100
Words: 80,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11569407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaClearwater/pseuds/RosaClearwater
Summary: And by pieces we really mean the semi-frequent drabbles mixed in with the fluffy ficlets, the pieces that entrench themselves in lugubrious angst, and the oneshots that try to masquerade as something other than Crack!ficlets._._Aka,What do you get when you mix bunnies, angst, crack, synchronicity, and the rain?(Enjoy!)





	1. Umbrella

Why did it have to rain the one day he didn't have a umbrella? The man briefly glared up at the sky before continuing to walk along as his clothes soon became sodden beyond repair in just minutes.

Though this change in weather would probably be considered an irritant to most people, he wasn't truly bothered by it.  
  
It really didn't matter whether or not it rained, it was just the principle that mattered. No matter what the pain was constantly floating around, boxing him in a cloud of misery, and there was nothing that could actually get through the surface of his soul. Nothing seemed to have much an effect when loneliness truly took over.  
  
Once they were gone, he carried a pain in his step. There was an ocean of numbness that seemed to have slowly dripped into his body over time and he became more disconnected with the world. He would spend his time walking down the street, almost like a vegetable.  
  
On a superficial level, he still hadn't lost his purpose. But when he faced failure most of the time, it just brought the real lesson closer: he would never truly win. The short and incomplete victories were always overshadowed by the failures. 

Well, at least he was no longer confined to that wheelchair.

  
"Hey! You!" He turned, feeling a sharp pain in his neck. It was still a habit to pretend he wasn't severely limited in this fashion. But, try as he'd like to deny it, his pain wasn’t normal. Yes, he was out of that accursed wheelchair, but the limp wasn't helping the pain in the slightest. And the rain stuck to him, clinging on like cold wax and seeping into every part of him that was even remotely "okay".    
  
But suddenly, the world of misery cracked and someone broke through.

And he was _dry?_ Protected?  
  
"You didn't seem right, drenched in the rain. Kinda like a soaked bird." Harold Finch blankly looked at the stranger who held a beaten down umbrella. The man fumbled with it for a few moments  
  
"Keep it," The man offered. However, it didn't seem to quite register with the Harold exactly what this man was offering. So he directly placed the umbrella in Harold's hand before a dreary silence took over the moment.  
  
"I got another one at the precinct." He awkwardly finished, before glancing around at the receding rain. "'Sides, what's the point in having an extra one if you don't share?"

Simple words for a simple man. Yet they seemed to strike a deeper chord in Harold, stirring him from his comatose state of existence. The wax was starting to melt off the defeated man and he nodded blankly at the detective.

Handing over a beaten up umbrella seemed almost _irrelevant_ , but unexpected acts of kindness always tended to change one’s perspectives.  
  
"Thank you." He muttered, but the wind picked up his words and carried them out of sight.  
  
Their official meeting was not to be for quite a while.  

But neither of them knew it just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of many to come, I’m transferring my old POI drabbles here from FFN and continuing my three year old promise to do 100 of these.
> 
> These will be slightly modified up to Drabble # 13 and then it's all new material (for both FFN and here) after that.
> 
> Also, if you'd like to suggest a prompt (or request that a certain character and/or pairing makes its way onto this stage), I'm down to give it a shot. I cannot guarantee anything other than I'm definitely willing to try.
> 
> Either way, have a nice day!


	2. Bunny

Detective Lionel Fusco was on a mission. There was no time for mistakes, or letting civilians get in his way.  
  
He was on the quest for _revenge._  
  
Dragging the poor boy behind him, Fusco marched through the tacky balloons, the laughing children, the scattered eggs. He scanned the perimeter before he found his target.

He didn't need to shove anyone out of his way: crowds of unsually cheerful people immediately parted for him like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea.

It was as though the world knew the importance of today’s mission.

  
The target in sight caught eyes with the detective before discretely stiffening. Lionel sharply shook his head. _No, you cannot run away from me now, you bastard. I will catch you and_ **_prove_ ** _that miracles can happen._  
  
His free hand slowly reached into his pocket as his eyes smirked in triumph as he finally came to a halt. The harried child that was dragged behind finally regained his composure as his doting father pulled out a camera.  
  
"Hey, Bunny," Fusco started with glee and heavy emphasis on the word "bunny", "can my son take a picture with you?"  
  
Once Lionel had heard from Glasses that Wonderboy had to go to some Easter carnival in disguise -- to hunt down their latest number, of course-- he had immediately taken his son out of school on a "family emergency" for some photographic evidence. It makes much more sense for a kid to want a photo than a middle-aged man of course.  
  
Both bunny and boy resigned themselves to their fates, evident in their excruciatingly fake smiles -- if you could consider a pained grimace to be a smile -- and slouched, defeated posture.  
  
"Say cheese!" Fusco cackled.  
  
And if one of these photos ended up in the hands of Glasses and Carter… Well, it would have been a complete accident, of course.

“Tell anyone,” Started the growl.

Obviously, he was keeping the one with the chocolate sauce explosion to himself.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Aren't bunnies supposed to be sweet animals?”

That one was pure gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Fusco won't always feature in these drabbles, but he's one of my favorites.
> 
> (But who am I kidding? They're all my favorites).


	3. Moments

She had walked in on the two of them again. Not that she really cared, for various reasons. However, it probably felt awkward to them -- even though she personally got a kick out of accidentally interrupting their little moments.  
  
They never actually did anything, of course. Nothing more than eye sex and moments of concern in which one thought the other was too idiotic, too self-sacrificing. There was no physical contact and yet it was always clear when they were having a "moment".   
  
She was very close to just shoving them into a closet and calling it a day until they sorted out the sexual tension.   
  
However, since that day was never going to come she'd just have to settle for calling them on their crap. And having something to stab or shoot when they were being really oblivious.   
  
" _John! Are you alright? John, are you hurt?"_   
  
_"Finch! Harold!"_   
  
_"I told you, you're a civilian, you can't-"_   
  
_"Just because you have impeccable timing does not mean you shouldn't invest in a bulletproof vest, John!"_   
  
Oh, if she had a penny for every moment like that she'd be able to buy steak forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A true drabble with its sequel soon on the way.
> 
> I do enjoy Shaw, and she'll definitely get to feature in a few drabbles here and there. 
> 
> And who would Miss Shaw be without Miss Zhirova or Miss Groves?


	4. Pi (and Pie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy the OC perspective!

I have never liked school. The whole learning system is stupid, the teacher pets are the only ones who "learn" anything and they already know the crap.

The only reason I even stay in school is because I don't wanna stress out mom more than I have to.

But like I said, it's  _ stupid _ .

There's nothing that prepares me for taxes, Shakespeare isn't gonna land me a job, and why the hell should I care about when King Charles the Eighteenth or whatever-his-name-is ruled over that one country a _long_ time ago. It's not important today, so why should I waste my time "learning" it?

'Sides, the teachers here are stupid. They wouldn't care about you if you got shot in the damn leg. You still had to go to the stupidest classes ever in which they droned on and on about the importance of education and attendance, so they could get paid.

Bottom line, most of my time is spent wasted in a goddamn stupid hellhole.

So when I walk into the classroom, find some new white guy sub instead of the usual bimbo, man I'm not even interested. He's dressed to the nines in a nerdy fashion and most definitely does not belong in this part of town.

But then again, I could care less what his "story" is, he obviously ain't from my part of town. Probably one of those rich people who decided to "help" the "less fortunate".

Like we need any help from you. It's bullcrap when they walk in and decide that they need to look good so they make you feel stupider and they come off as so fake.

He probably doesn't even know jack.

Even if he looks like one of those NASA nerds.

So the bell rings and I'm just chilling in the back. If he doesn't care if we're on our phones, then why do I even have to pay attention.

But my eyes glance up at the board anyway, just to watch this guy. Let's see how he tries to "control the situation".

He limps, oh good we've got a gimpy today, over to the board and begins drawing a circle with a line.

Very impressive, Sherlock. Art class is down the hall.

And we've got a squiggly lines with other lines attached drawn up underneath.

Yeah, we got a loser today. Some nerd who's probably gonna be like "math may not be practical kids, but it can be fun and complicated and you're not gonna understand anything I talk about unless you've got an IQ of 500."

Is that even possible to have that kinda IQ?

Anyway, ooh now there's numbers to go along with the lesson. About time we got to the damn numbers. I'm not quite sure what's so important about adding all those little numbers after the 3 There's gotta be a limit to anything eventually.

"Pi." He starts, and immediately I can tell he's one of those smart guys, the ones that probably went to Harvard or whatever. And ooh, did he mention pie? Damn, now I want some now. Not that crappy sweet cherry pie, but delicious apple pie which is classic.

"Can any of you tell me what it means?"

Ooh the amount of smartass things at the tip of my tongue that are just waiting to be said. Just like me, the rest of the class is unimpressed and I'm pretty sure everyones got their phone out, even the class pets.

"I'll settle for an intelligent question here."

Then you came to the wrong place man. He awkwardly looks around the room and I resist to roll my eyes. Like, waiting for us to speak is like trying to avoid blowing a red in the city: it's not gonna happen.

"My friend has a question Mr. Swift," This is gonna be good. He merely smiles at her, oblivious to the fact that she does not care. At all.

"What is any of this good for, and, uh, when will we ever use it?" She smirked using that sugary sweet fake voice and the class snickered, myself included. He merely smiles, not even upset.

That's new.

"Let me show you," He says, turning to the board.

Go right ahead, Mr. NASA Nerd.

"Pi," Here we go, the five hour lecture on how back in his day kids actually cared about irrelevant things. "The ratio of a circumference to its diameter, and this is just the beginning."

Does pi live happily ever after? Is it story time?

"It keeps on going, forever. Without ever repeating." Okay, now I'm a little curious because like I said, everything ends at some point. Including this class.

"Which means that contained within this string of decimals is every single other number. Your birth date, the combination to your locker, your Social Security number. It's all in there, somewhere." He paused before hobbling around the classroom. Now he kinda really had my attention. Just how long is this pi thing anyway? And how do they know it never ends?

"And if you convert those decimals into letters, you would have every  _ word  _ that ever existed in every possible combination." No frickin way man.

"The first syllable you spoke as a baby, the name of your latest  _ crush _ . Your entire life story from beginning to end. Everything we ever say, or do, all of the world's infinite possibilities rest within this one simple circle." He paused, having already hooked everyone's attention a loonngg time ago.

"Now what you do with that information, what it's good for, well that would be up to you."

–

She, Mom that is, always asked me about school. It was normally a stupid routine, seeing as school never actually taught me anything. But I respect her enough not to complain too much and just BS my way through the question.

But today, I had an honest answer.

"...Math's not so bad. We got any pie?"

 


	5. Wrong

She was wrong.

She was so damn  _wrong_.

It only hit her how grave an error in judgment she made, when he got slammed in the gut by bullets.

She really thought she had been doing the right thing. Double-crossing people and selling them out was not her cup of coffee, but if it helped put away a dangerous guy she would do it. The lines of black and white always blurred a little when it came to putting people away. But once he fled away like a wounded animal, she really began to question the motives behind all this.

The more she questioned, the more trust she lost in all of this. The more she wondered about whether or not the right man got shot tonight.

She followed him down the stairs as though she was going down the rabbit hole after the white rabbit. Yet this time the white rabbit was bloodied up from gunshots and probably wasn't worried about being late.

He didn't even seem to have an escape plan.

She almost believed he was content  _not_  surviving. That he preferred to bleed out with no one to save him and nothing to remember him other than the police files that would soon just get filed away.

Which just made it all the more easy to believe that this was all wrong.

Adrenaline was still pumping through her, motivating her to continue through the stairwell where she discovered the blood trail slightly grew before stopping.

So, what was next?

She was close, that much was clear. But close to what was the bigger question. Carter had to remind herself that she was still chasing down a suspect, questionable motives or not.

"Hold it!" She sharply cried out, gun moving forward to carry her into the scene. Her old  _innocent_  witness was carrying her suspect. They were clearly accomplices and possibly something more, judging from the look of cold fury she received at her arrival. 

Why is all of this happening?

Who _are_ these people?

But now was not the time to question anything. Now was the time to act.

The Man in the Suit seemed to have lost his confidence as he leaned onto his buddy more than she liked. Sweat covered him, and a look that seemed too weak to even beg for mercy reflected in his face. He didn't care about whether or not he made it, that much was obvious. The Man in the Suit only seemed to really care about his partner getting out of this alive as his deadened eyes stared directly at her, like he'd already given up the fight to live.

It was time to make a decision.

She knew she was most likely gonna regret this, but she holstered her gun after a quick glance to make sure she wasn't seen by any other agents.

"C'mon," She muttered taking him into her arms and helping him into the car. She'd helped them now and then get answers later, of that she would damn make sure of. The look of relief on his pal made her feel only a little less guilty about helping a possible suspect escape.

But instinct is what she always tried to follow, and this felt  _right_.

"Go!"

At least, this felt more right than watching him get gunned down for no real reason.

But only time would tell if she made the right decision.

Or, if she was still _wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely love Carter, and most certainly enjoyed watching her progression throughout the series


	6. Happy (previously known as "Go")

He knew one day, they would all go. Whether it was shot down in action, or peacefully in their sleep. It was an fact in their line of work they constantly faced on an almost daily basis.

One day there'd be no Wonder Boy to come in at the last minute and take a bullet. Glasses might not be around to hack the Pentagon if need be. No Shaw to threaten anyone all while taking down a popsicle at the same time.

Carter was already gone. By rights he should have died a while back, not her. She didn't deserve it but he most definitely did.

He didn't deserve to have the chance to see his son so happy as though the world wasn't some conspiracy of delicate cracked webs, barely hidden from the public yet ready to fall apart at any given moment. He had no right to enjoy sunny days where it felt good to be alive.

Hell was going to reign any moment in life, and yet he was still _happy_.

... Well probably not happy.

But not quite alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably tell which episode I wrote this little piece after.


	7. Be Our Guest

Why a teacher at an elementary school would be a number, Shaw didn't know. She didn't particularly care either.

All that mattered was getting through this without throwing a knife at one of the brats.

" _Finch"_ She had started, almost with a groan. But Shaw didn't groan or whine. She just complained.

"Miss Shaw, as I explained, Mr. Reese is already busy with another number and this should be easy enough to handle."

She briefly considered poisoning Finch's sencha green in retaliation, but decided against it. She'd just rack up his bill by ordering the equivalent of an all-you-can-eat at some expensive restaurant.

"Do remember, Miss Shaw, that these are children. Please treat them as such."

"Everyone on the stage please!" A shrill voice called from the front of the auditorium, as kids began to shuffle onto the stage to face the blinding lights.

"Yes, Ms. Ralenor." Shaw ignored the chorusing voices, scanning into the mini group of teachers nearby. Having spotted the two numbers of the day, Shaw stood in the shadows on the balcony, out of sight yet still close enough to the action to intervene if necessary.

"No fatal shots, Miss Shaw." Finch warned. She rolled her eyes in response.

"Alright kids, now today I want to do at least one full run through of the show! Give all the energy you got!" Miss Ralenor, unfortunately not one of the numbers, twittered out. "We only have two weeks left until it's performance week!"

"From the top!"

_Shoot me_ , Shaw thought as a cacophony of tone-deaf singing filled the auditorium.

In surround sound.

Shaw had never been interested in Disney. Or musicals. And she was definitely not interested in listening to the entire Beauty and the Beast musical. Three times.

Why three times, you may ask?

Because that's how many times it took for Mrs. Marlis to reveal that she had been wanting to murder Mr. Perez because he had been having an affair with her husband.

Unfortunately Shaw couldn't shoot anyone this time. But, make no mistake: she was definitely demanding a raise.

And now she was definitely reconsidering lacing Finch's tea with a milder poison, or maybe LSD. Apparently, he already had an incidence with it even though she couldn't get anything out of Reese -- even with the threat of bringing out the bunny photos. And when she asked Fusco he just gave her a look that said "Never again will I ever talk about what had happened".

_Rude._

On second thought, she'd rack up the bill at  _two_ expensive restaurants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having gone through several musical productions myself, I empathize with Shaw 100% on this one.


	8. Steps

"Mr. Reese, I don't quite think-"

They had gone out for a drink days ago.

"Finch, it's time to get you back."

_ Wasn't that enough? _

"Mr. Reese, I can assure you-"

"Baby steps, Finch, baby steps. I can't have you unable to leave the house if I need you in the field."

"Mr. Reese, it is not necessary to worry. I'm quite able to walk out of here whenever needed." Not quite a lie. If John truly needed him, Harold would force himself to leave his sanctuary.

But, Harold was afraid.

And yet, today was not the day to go back into the safety of isolation. John needed Harold to make some sort of effort today. Not fade slowly back into the shadows of fear and negativity.

Because Harold was blending into the cold background of his surroundings. Not even the protective presence of their new dog hovering nearby could bring him away from his fear and misery. He was starting to fade into the dusty protection of knowledge and numbers, he was shielding himself behind bookshelves and barriers.

So Reese cornered him today, dog leash in one hand and a Sencha green tea in the other.

"C'mon, Finch. Just a quick walk outside." Harold seemed to grow pale at the thought and words normally spoken in a teasing manner were muttered almost bitterly.

"You're quite incorrigible,  _ Mr. Reese _ , with this idea that going out  _ there _ is something necessary for me. _I am not you_. My purpose is here."

"Your purpose,  _ Harold _ , is to remember why we go after these Numbers. That even if they're irrelevant to the government they're not just numbers. They're people. Our purpose is to help them because we understand how important it is to help." The conviction in his statement was apparent, and the ironic role reversal was not lost in the situation.

Harold was the one who needed the purpose this time. Not John. And they both knew that.

Silence divided the two men, as John waited patiently. He wouldn't push Finch too far past his limits, but it was time to take action.

Something in Harold seemed to stir up a little, and John hid his surprise as the tired man slowly stood up before him.

"As you wish, Mr. Reese." Harold was still scared. 

But, John was going to be there.

And that counted for something.

And so they started the steps. It was only a few moments before he was surrounded by uncomfortable warmth for the first time in weeks. 

But Mr. Reese's arm was protectively wrapped around him and they braved the world today with Bear in tow.

Harold only had a few seconds of warning.

Then, the noise attacked. Blaring horns, chatter filling the street, shouts, children laughter. The typical noises of humanity assaulted his ears while the smells charged his senses, and he felt almost sick. Sunshine blinded him and he felt severely unprepared for this nightmare.

The library was peaceful, the library was calm, the library was  _ safe _ . The delicate smell of knowledge, the cold existence of his computers, the dusty books wafting through the air shielded him. The library was his nest of information and comfort. It allowed him his solitude and anonymity. And it was his anonymity and solitude from the world that sheltered him. It was his way of detaching from humanity and falling into the cold comfort of facts, information, logic, and numbers that allowed him to breathe.

There were no Roots in his library. No unpredictable variables. No unknowns.

He tensed more than a cat doused in ice cold water would've. He fought the warmth, closed his eyes against the world, and tried to run back into the library but was stopped in his tracks.

Harold would've been safely tucked back in his little corner had it not been for John.

"Finch, stay with me." John's soft voice crept back into his mind, and Harold felt rather foolish for having this issue.

"Mr. Reese, I apologize for my behavior. However, I don't think I can stand to be out here much longer. I'm clearly not meant for this." Melodramatic? Yes. But would such statements get him back to his safe haven?

_ Yes. _

"Just a block, Harold, then we can go back."

They began to walk. Feeling began to flood back into Finch's legs as they became re-accustomed to the action. Muscles began to ache with each step, craving exercise after days of being uncomfortably stiffed. The noise began to slowly lessen, as Harold became used to it once more. Bear and John merely waited patiently for their little bird, their Finch, to relax.

Shadows began to melt off Harold, and color returned to his body. He was still scared, flinching at every almost accident in the streets, and he couldn't look at any of the telephones. The limp was more pronounced, but every step he took forward was another miniature victory.

As the trio awkwardly headed down the street John hid a soft smile watching Harold try to come back to humanity.

This ordeal was clearly going to take effort to get past.

But they'd be together every step of the way.


	9. Family

Laughter twinkled protectively around them and happiness always seemed to float after them as though everything they touched was affected in a positive way.

Family was something he never really had.

Why would a killing machine ever need a family?

Sometimes, when such a wonderment passed him, he would think of Jessica. Sometimes he'd think of Carter and her son. Occasionally Lionel came to thought, but that was rare.

More often than not, he'd think of Harold.

Did Harold ever have a family?

–

They were sitting in the library when the answer became clear.

There was no dramatic climax for John's realizations, no near-death situations for him to figure it out.

Just a surge of protectiveness for all of his  loved ones .

Because there was nothing else to call them.

They were his family. Stronger than just a group of friends or colleagues, these were the people he would gladly die for if it meant they were saved. If it meant they could live another day, he would gladly go down for them.

They would never get a chance to be a proper family. They'd never have an opportunity to just walk down a street together publicly, or laugh away their problems.

They were an odd group, but John didn't really mind.

He was never one for a proper family anyway.


	10. Snow

They were on another one of their rare walks. Joss didn't mind walking with John. While they weren't partners, they were some sort of equivalent. Therefore, every couple of weeks, they'd just walk and talk.

At this point she knew better than to question him. Sure, she was never quite sure why he and Finch were doing what they did, or how exactly they kept finding all these people, but she was content not to question it for the moment.

She knew it was for a good cause.

"Detective?"  
However, she apparently didn't know what they were just talking about.

"Sorry, John. Got lost in my train of thought." He merely chuckled a little, something that was a rarity for him.

Perhaps everyone was going a little crazy from the weather. They continued to trudge along, in the snow covered city. NYC may be a concrete jungle, but in the wintertime it seemed to be more of a dirty version of Winter Wonderland. The snow did wonders to the city though, as long as it didn't melt into slush.

_Smack_.

"John!" He merely smirked, as she wiped the snowball off her front.

"I just need my detective to be alert." He said, as though that made up for it. She grumbled and shoved her hands into her pockets, carrying on. Conversation occasionally came up, and this time she was paying much more attention, keeping a wary eye on him while waiting for her moment.

_Smack!_

"Detective, is that a challenge?" There was a threat in that statement, yet Carter couldn't help but snort in response.

"Oh, it's on." That was a promise.

–

"Mom, what happened to you?" Taylor opened the door to a peculiar sight. A straight-faced Mr. Reese stood next to his mom. She was barely keeping herself upright from laughter, the former barely touched with any snow while the latter was coated in it. Joss's cheeks were flushed, her eyes lit with mischief as she smiled at her son before she struck.

"Mom! Not cool!" He said as she pelted him with two snowballs, before coming in for a frozen hug.

By the time he looked back for Mr. Reese, the man was gone with the wind.

–

"Mr. Reese, are you alright?" The man was standing in front of the entrance of the library, in the middle of winter, apparently waiting for Finch. Harold had finished with the work needed for today, and decided to finally head out with Bear.

"I hope you don't mind if I accompany you for a little while Finch." An odd request, but Harold didn't really mind. John had a strange friendship with Harold. Theirs was one filled with hints, subtle trusting moments, and secrets carefully handed over. But going out for a walk would be a nice change.

At least, it would have been a nice change. Finch had indeed been enjoying himself right until he was lightly smacked in the back of the head by a snowball. He slowly turned to his employee and felt the snow embed itself in his hair. He was not pleased by that little surprise, especially since the fedora didn't really protect his head from the invading cold.

"Mr. Reese, as your employer-" He started to speak, but the sounds of John shaking with mirth from the apparently comical sight stopped the lecture in its tracks. Harold merely rolled his eyes in response, not even bothering with a lecture by this point.

After all, it was worth it to see the weary man finally smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Joss&John (and Harold, of course!) fluff. Might get a sequel of its own with a fuller cast. Depends on how much I miss the snow -- which, I'll readily admit, I rather do.


	11. The Right Place

"Wait, are you sure this is the right place?"

It was getting harder to breathe, but even he was starting to put the pieces together.

"Yes. This is where you're supposed to be."

The right place. Not the correct place. That's what she agreed to.

"No, none of these dishes are capable of transmitting to a Molniya orbit. This is the wrong building!"

In the hazy state created from blood loss and exhaustion, half-formed questions swirled around his brain.

Why did this feel like John-

"Right building, Finch. For you."

**No. This is not how it's supposed to go, John.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because this is how the ending of the show officially went, doesn't mean I'm going to be properly acknowledging that any time soon.


	12. Shirtsleeves

The unusual humidity clung to him, desperate to make its presence known. Yet, he didn't mind it all that much. Just reminded him that he was alive.

As John made his way down to their familiar hideaway, he held onto a brief smile. Not that any witnesses would be able to call it as such, but for the ex-assassin a minute twitch of the lips would be classified as a smile.

It's just that, he could imagine it all clearly: the weather dipping into the high 90s, humidity sweeping through the city, and Finch would still be tucked away in the library in one of his three-piece suits.

Not only that, but Finch would also still be content to raise an inquisitive eyebrow if Reese were to ask for the day off on one of those days.

" _Why on Earth would you need a day off, Mr. Reese? It's only 102 degrees outside."_

That little moment of imagination kept him going through the steps scattered with dusty books. It kept him from indulging in a slight dizziness as the temperature seemed to rise with every step into their headquarters.

And it had him cracking up into peals of laughter when he finally arrived at his destination. Finch only looked up questioningly from his station as Bear pelted forward in lieu of a serene greeting.

Mr. Reese was a cold vigilante, one who wouldn't hesitate to kneecap someone if necessary. He's gone through hours of what others would call torture, he can pin down any person of any size… and he was currently unable to stop himself from laughing.

"Mr. Reese, are you quite alright?" Harold got up, cringing at the fact that he could see sweat around his station.

"You're- you're" is all the man could get out.

"Oh dear."  _It seems we might need a day off and much sooner than I anticipated_.

"Mr. Reese, we have a new number," But the numbers would have to wait a few more minutes.

After a good couple of moments had passed, it seemed that John was getting himself under control. But then, he looked up and a few unexpected chuckles escaped.

"I'm sorry, Finch." He coughed and managed to retain his composure. "It's just that-"

"I'm sure you can be trusted on to take today's number quite seriously, Mr. Reese." Finch was not having it today.

But having been reduced to an unbutton long-sleeved shirt, a shirt that was rolled up rather precariously moreover, with no handkerchief or embellishment… it had been quite understandable as to why Finch just "was not having it today".

Furthermore, with hair as unusually messy and glasses askew whilst they hung from his shirt, it was particularly difficult for John not to bust up laughing. He really didn't mean to offend.

But Harold resembled a bird so much, he almost expected the man to be flying to the nearest telephone booth to retrieve their next number.


	13. Never Assume

"So, what is the moral of the story, Mr. Reese?"

Mr. Reese just glared at him for a solid moment. Considering all of the rookie mistakes Harold has made in the field, he really is one to talk. But, after a few moments of obstinate glaring, John sighed.

"'Moral of the story: Never assume.'" There had been a Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy movie marathon a few blocks away from the library. On a whim, Finch confessed that that particular movie couple, Hepburn and Tracy, were a favorite of his.

Which soon led to the two of them stepping into the theatres during a brief break in the numbers. They only got to see one movie, Desk Set, but one had been enough. Afterwards, Mr. Reese had made many wisecracks about EMERAC, and Finch was content merely to smile indulgently in response.

Flash-forward to today.

Now instead of enjoying each other's presence in a dark theatre, they were trapped inside a dark closet.

"It seems Miss Shaw and the Machine have been conspiring lately. Though to what extent, it seems we'll be unable to find out anytime soon." Harold supposed that he should be more concerned about this than he was, but found that he was surprisingly disinterested in that line of inquiry.

Currently, he was more concerned with how close to John he was. He was a little more distracted by the fact that in the process of being pushed into the closet, he ended up quite literally falling into John's arms and was unable to untangle their legs.

No matter, there was one more potential line of help to find. Harold tried reaching for his phone, but suddenly John's hand stopped him.

"Not only would you compromise the Library, but do you really want to explain to Fusco or Carter why we're in a closet?" Harold paused for a moment, confused by why the thought of compromising the Library didn't already come to mind.

"Good point." Was all he could say before letting his hand rest on someone's leg. Judging from the subtle movement of Mr. Reese, Harold was willing to bet it was John's leg.

"Well, Mr. Reese," In a situation like this, boundaries were a number one priority, "What do you suggest we do?"

"Well,  _Harold,_ " It seems John was currently having an aversion to boundaries. And, when his silky voice cut through the air like that, it was rather difficult to disagree. "I suppose there is  _some_  reason the Machine decided to throw us into a locked closet. What do you think?"

Finch thinly smiled at this, knowing that there was undoubtedly some reason this incident occurred. For a brief moment he contemplated the concept of there being some other AI that managed to fool Shaw into thinking it were the Machine. However, this scenario wouldn't fit the mindset of an AI like that- said AI would want them dead and permanently out of the picture, not trapped in a closet.

As Finch began to mentally run through various potential reasons behind this predicament, the space around them seemed to decrease. He wanted to fidget with the lack of distance between him and John - not because of the man himself, but because Finch just wasn't used to being in such close proximity with another person.

And with this close proximity came not only emotional barriers, but also physical discomfort. As Harold adjusted himself, a pain shot through his side and he couldn't help but softly gasp.

" _Harold_?" He could hear John lean forward, felt the energy of a hand lean towards him but stop in its track. He could only really focus on breathing, but knew that if he didn't respond that Mr. R- John- would become even more concerned.

"It's just a little discomforting being in such a position, Mr. Reese." He tried not to snap, but was afraid his efforts were for naught. And then, silence fell over the two again.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Are you any good at massages, Mr. Reese?" came the wry response. He really shouldn't have asked, he shouldn't even be complaining of the matter. But the pain was there, and he hardly expected-

Gentle hands were only inches away from his shoulders.

" _Yes._ " Came the raspy response. "You'll need to turn around if it's possible, but yes." Harold paused in his thoughts, very grateful that the lack of lighting hid his blush. He knew that John was only trying to help, that it was only an innocent way of wanting to assist in any capacity.

But this sort of attention, platonic or otherwise, had not been given to Harold in many years.

However, the pain was beginning to creep up and slowly grow. And, soon, Harold would have to let him help or he would be unable to even stand up without assistance.

"Okay." He spoke uncharacteristically, but this was a very uncharacteristic situation.

First, John untangled their legs ever so delicately. He apologized every time he noticed Harold suppressing a wince, but it had to be done.

Then came getting the poor man to face the other direction. It took effort, and it took patience, but eventually Harold found himself practically leaning on John. He was heavily breathing from the exertion, and almost didn't realize how intimate the whole situation had become until he felt the vigilante's heartbeat right next to his own.

Finch bolted a few inches forward, ignoring his own pain at the movement.

"I'm quite sorry, that was rather inappropriate of me." He stammered, and felt John's gaze sharpen.

"Finch, please don't do that again." He internally winced, knowing that it was he that stepped too far. "Sudden movements when you're not in pain are one thing. But, please, don't just move away even if you feel uncomfortable. You need to take it slowly, even if it kills you to."

Harold paused, blushing even more so now and very grateful Mr. Reese couldn't see his face. A hand reached out to steady him.

"Is it still okay to help?" This would be it. Harold was very ashamed of himself, but he already knew that he wouldn't be able to control himself as much as he'd like.

However, they wouldn't be getting out of here any time soon. Shaw undoubtedly took Bear and left the place a long time ago. The Machine, whatever plans it had in mind, was not going to suddenly make it possible for them to leave.

"Yes." Came the soft response.

Gentle, firm hands waited a few moments before caressing his back. But there was one problem.

"Finch, in order for this to work, you can't be wearing three layers." Harold took this information in stride, reaching to undo the buttons of his jacket. He could at least do that much without too much pain.

"Mr. Reese, I'm afraid I'm going to need your-" But the jacket was already slipping off his shoulders, and Finch found it was not only easier to breathe, but that there was also less pain. He sighed in relief, breathing in the change.

"Better?" It would normally sound a lot more coquettish to hear Mr. Reese speak like that, but this tone was more concerned than anything.

"Much. Thank you."

Another moment of silence.

"Finch, I'm either going to have to untuck your button-up or take it off altogether." The unspoken question hung in the air, and Finch resisted the urge to sigh and tense up.

"You can untuck it, Mr. Reese." And he did. Slowly, so as to not frighten Harold.

Unfortunately, slowly also unintentionally translated in sensuously and Harold barely suppressed a shiver of delight.

"Are you okay, Harold?"

"Quite fine, Mr. Reese." He needed to keep it together for both of their sakes. He couldn't afford to lose this friend over a silly moment in a locked closet.

That noble train of thought was all fine and dandy, until fingers swept through the button-up and the undershirt.

And then skin connected with skin.

That's when Harold's breath caught itself. Strong hands paused for another moment, but continued to scan his back to see exactly where the tension lied.

They swept up and down, and even those innocent movements almost coaxed a quiet moan of relief out of him.

But that only happened when John's hands found a particularly tough knot and began to work it out. That's when decorum slipped out the window and Harold softly sighed in relief. A subtle smile formed on John's face, but Harold was focused so much not losing all composure that subtlety was hardly required.

And, then a few more knots began to be worked on. And the relief was so overflowing, so surprising, that Harold could hardly contain his reaction.

"Oh, John." Came the whisper of delight.

That's when John decided to take a chance. He would have never have guessed that they'd ever be in this situation, but he supposed that in itself was a reminder to never assume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies, Gentlemen, and individuals that identify as something else altogether, we're now heading into new material! You may have recognized a lot of the last few pieces, but from here on out it's going to be fresh.
> 
> Enjoy! ;) :)


	14. Magic Trick

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the magician of the hour… the marvelous, the wonderful, the Great Rootini!”

 

_Rootini? Are you kidding me? Is that supposed to be a play on pasta?_  


 

A dazzling spotlight shimmied its way through the crowd as the curtains opened.

 

“Our new number is a magician, Finch?” Came the growl.

 

Applause sprung into the air as a brunette stepped forth, walking out the shadows and into the limelight.

 

And amidst the applause came a groan as a head crashed onto a table.

 

“Yes, Miss Shaw. Were you not paying attention to our earlier meeting?” Her silent rolling of her eyes answer that question.

 

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen,” A sweet voice rang from the stage and Shaw resisted the urge to groan out of frustration again. Magicians were one things, but bubbly magicians were another thing altogether.  

 

“Something wrong, Shaw? Don’t tell me you can’t handle a few magic tricks?”

 

“Don’t even start, _Mr. Bunny_ .” Oh, yes, Fusco eventually shared _all_ of those photos from that incident with her. And when she heard dead silence at that remark, well, that brought a chuckle from her.

 

Fortunately, all of the chatter caused her to miss the first trick of the night. Unfortunately, the problem was that this was most likely where something would happen -- _if_ this Samantha Groves character was the victim.

 

Either way, she definitely would not--

 

“And, now, can I have a volunteer from the crowd?” _Don’t you dare--_

 

“Young lady, would you like to disappear?” She almost growled again, except now the spotlight was fixed on her. But, either way, she was fuming. Not only did she _not_ raise her hand, but nobody _ever_ called her “young lady”.

 

Finch only made that mistake once, and it was a mistake she made sure would never happen again.

 

But, now she found herself unwillingly walking up to the stage. She resisted the urge to glare at the “magician of the hour” as she approached her. The woman in question merely beamed at her, holding a thick blindfold in her hand. She turned back to the crowd.

 

“Now ladies and gentlemen, watch as I make this young lady disappear!” A glare almost cracked through the fake smile Sameen had plastered on her face, but she’d be damned if _Mr. Bunny_ would be getting any blackmail material on her.

 

Cue appropriate gasps from the audience, and a mild applause. Samantha slinked around Sameen, and delicately placed the blindfold over her eyes.

 

“You can call me Root.” It wasn’t so much of a whisper as it was a breathe of silky air that definitely did not caress or run down Sameen’s spine.

 

She was definitely not working any magician cases after this one, Numbers be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies, gentlemen, and individuals of other identifications, allow me to finally introduce one of our favorite characters: Root!
> 
> Something tells me that she would thoroughly enjoy being a magician, and that she'd love to involve Shaw (and Harold) in almost all of her tricks.
> 
> Also, this is definitely a dabble into a Magician AU. 
> 
> Have a nice day!


	15. Substitute Teacher

 

Unlike Harold, when John had to go undercover as a substitute teacher he did not get to teach math. He also did not get the pleasure of teaching English or history. He didn’t even get to try his hand at music or art.

No, none of those subjects were to be his subject today.

As he walked into his classroom, John inspected the students. It was a grim situation, mostly filled with a lack of motivation and the typical high school angst.

In that moment, John made a determination. In those first few moments, he made a determination that this was going to be _fun_.

For him, at least.

“Mr. Reese, are you quite sure it is a wise to decision to treat these students like soldiers?”

The lot of them had almost passed out from the laps he instructed them to do. He didn’t really see any problems with his instructions -- he only asked them to jog around the school’s premises fifteen times.

“Relax, Finch.”

“Mr. Richardson!” Sara, one of the star pupils of the class, jogged up to him with a face flushed with pride that she managed to keep up. “Could you teach us the drinking cadence after we finish laps?”

“ _What did she just say, Mr. Reese?_ ”

Originally, he had them just jogging. But then someone asked what branch of the military he came from. Which, of course, meant that he had them soon jogging at double-time to cadences giving a direct response. But after the first few kids fell out of line, it became a free for all.

_“Mr. Reese?”_

“Maybe, Sara. We’ll see.”

_“Mr. Reese, do I have to tell Detective Carter about your teaching methods? After all, you could easily be substituting for Taylor’s class right now.”_

“Aye, aye, sir!” She facetiously saluted -- much to John’s surprise, it wasn’t a bad salute -- and jogged off to finish her laps.

Unfortunately, to break his cover by responding to Finch during this class might have incredibly detrimental outcomes, especially because the Number of the day was in this class. So, it was with a heavy heart that he had to mute Finch for the time being.

_“Mr. Reese, I really don’t--”_

At least until they finished laps.

Then we’d see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think John would love being a substitute gym teacher. And the drinking cadence I refer to in this instance is called “Tiny Bubbles”. If you’re curious, feel free to look it up.


	16. Who?

The rain caressed her ever so gently.

_ Rain? _

Why was she lying down outside?

For that matter, why was she outside?

Not that being outside was unpleasant, far from it. But she couldn’t seem to remember how she got here.

Maybe this was just a dream?

Well, there would be only one way to find out. That was something she was sure of.

The woman slowly opened her eyes, and breathed in heavily. She was content to just weakly observe the skies. Something seemed to be wrong. It was a grey day, one where hope seemed to have receded behind the clouds. It seemed too gloomy, too cold to be a dream. 

And yet, even though she was very weak and seemingly exhausted, she also felt at peace. She knew she should be petrified: people don’t just wake up outside for no reason. And people don’t just wake up with no memory of their life.

But she was okay. 

Truly.

…

“Miss Groves?”

Oh. She had fallen asleep again. But this time, she seemed to have company. 

A man’s voice was calling to her, repeating what she assumed was her name. It was a nice voice, pleasant and trusting. It sounded like the voice of one of your favorite teachers, or of a friend you could go if you needed help.

She opened her eyes once more.

_ Still outside, I see _ .

Two men looked down at her. And she thought she saw a dog standing behind them. But looking at the dog, as cute as he was, took too much energy. So, she just looked up.

Concern clearly lined the face of the shorter of the two men, while the other man just stared at her.

She saw recognition in their own eyes, and maybe a hint of fear. 

Did something bad happen?

“I’m sorry,” She said politely, a soft smile still fixed upon her face. “But, who are you?”

The taller of the two finally had a reaction: he blinked.

“Root?” His raspy voice seemed to match his demeanor.

_ Hmm… He reminds me of a big…  _ A vague term flittered to the front of her mind, but was gone before she could grab it. It teased her brain, before sliding back into the abyss of a memory she could not recall. So, she stopped studying the taller of the two men and looked at the other one.

“You seem rich.”  

She thought she heard a slight hint of a chuckle escape the raspy, well-dressed man at her comment but she couldn’t be sure. It felt nice to close her eyes again.

“Miss Groves?”

“Just want to close my eyes for a moment.”

_ “Root?”  _

_ Now that doesn’t sound right coming from you.  _ But before she had time to really think about it, she drifted off into sleep.

...

The next time she awoke, she wasn’t outside. That brought a momentary frown: being outside was nice. The drizzle of rain had been smooth, peaceful. But that train of thought was soon lost to her curiosity as she then decided to focus on her surroundings.

For someone who seemed to have lost her memory, she felt quite comfortable in a place where she had no recollection. There was no nostalgia in this empty room, but it was still okay. She felt safe either way.

Suddenly, something moved out of the corner of her eyes: a shadow.

Even though common sense says to react when a shadow moves towards you, the woman felt like she tended to ignore common sense. Or, at the very least, she ignored common sense when it didn’t suit her.

The shadow seemed to solidify into a form. And this particular form seemed to trigger something inside her.

“Root?”

That name, coming from that woman’s lips, seemed right. 

Familiar.


	17. The Trial

If Mr. Reese were able to drive safely _and_ stare at Finch the entire way back to the library, he definitely would’ve. However, it was probably for the best that John wasn't able to.

For once, no one was wounded, shot, or bleeding out.

No. It was even worse.

Harold was on _ecstasy_.

The reclusive billionaire, the one who never much cared for talking or divulging secrets, was at his loopiest. His current curiosity rivaled Leila’s and his level of enthusiasm was definitely on her level. John almost considered putting together an improvised baby seat for the man, adult-sized of course. Because, at least in a baby seat equivalent, he wouldn’t be able to do anything.

Because Harold wasn’t just talking, or asking to hack various governments.

He was also interacting.

And not just with computers.

John sighed as Finch poked him again. It was the tenth poke in the last two minutes, and it stopped being cute after the third time.  

It wasn’t really Finch’s fault. In John’s opinion, it was really his own fault. After all, he let Harold walk into a potentially dangerous situation -- which turned into a not-so-potentially dangerous situation but a reality.

_Maybe we should get a dog._

He glanced back at his employer, eternally grateful that he was fully mesmerized by tapping out a rhythm on the window.

Harold was certainly going to be embarrassed in the morning. But John knew that his employer would be _mortified_ if he accidentally revealed something.

That was one of two main reasons John was trying to avoid talking to Harold if it could be helped.

John’s other main reason was a little more personal: He wouldn’t know if Harold felt like John was truly trustworthy if all the secrets flew out into the air tonight.

After all, when someone’s entrusted a secret in such a casual fashion, what does that imply?

Granted, when information was practically begging to be stolen from those lips, it was very difficult not to take advantage of this situation. But John would not take advantage. He would not risk the closest thing he’s had to friendship over one LSD-driven night

John looked back again at Harold to study the man. He would never admit it, but the childlike version of Harold he met today was almost…

Yeah, he wasn’t even going to say it in his mind.

“ _Booook!_ ”

John could only stare at Harold, feeling thankful that they were stopped at a red light. The genius in question was now attacking the window with multiple pokes, vaguely pointing towards a store that was now behind them.

“Finch, lots of stores have books. Why don’t we--?”

“But I like _this_ book!”

“I’m sure we can find it somewhere else--”

“But this is a _first-edition_!”

John sighed. And then surveyed the area.

The light turned green and they started to roll forward, much to Harold’s obvious displeasure. But John had already decided to turn around.

That decision to turn around was definitely not because of Harold’s squeals of delight. Or because his hands were haphazardly clapping together in an ador-- in a fashion reminiscent of a child.

And it was definitely, most certainly not because this whole moment was going to be committed to memory in a very, very secluded part of his mind.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Those words cheerfully escaped, among a babble of other things.

Five minutes later, Mr. Reese learned something knew about his employer:

Apparently, Finch was okay with breaking into a bookstore. He had an aversion to firearms, never cared for deviant behavior, was opposed to violence, and more.

And yet, even with his clear dislike of any sort of crime, Harold was totally okay with breaking and entering into a place he’s repeatedly referred to as a safe haven.

But, of course, when it comes to stealing something Finch just  _had_ to pay. In cash.  

Harold also apparently had no qualms with waving a hand energetically at the nearest security camera.

“Hey! Are you gonna give us our Num--” He started shouting in the general direction of said camera before Mr. Reese clapped a hand around his mouth.

And then briefly paused.

“Harold,"

The man in question tensed.

"did you just lick me?”

He could feel Harold's chuckles vibrate and tickle his now wet hand. But, surprisingly, he had no real problem with this.

“John,” came the childlike whisper. And, even though Mr. Reese was already in close proximity, he couldn’t help but humor his employer by leaning farther in.

Harold stared at him, a mixture of emotions dancing across his face. It was strange enough to see one emotion let alone five. Harold reached out to John with one hand, the other one still clutching _The Trial_ , and stood on his tiptoes to lean in.

“I think I have to use the bathroom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was totally inspired by “Like the Birds in the Sky”, an excellent FFN piece by A Black Queen. It's my attempt at answering one of the question she poses (and soon answers herself): 
> 
> How did Finch get his hands on that book, The Trial? It shows up when he first talks to Jordan and pops up again in the last few moments of “Identity Crisis”.


	18. Maybe This Time

Gunfire flew by John’s ear. He already got struck once today but the piercing sound didn't worry him. It only gave his apathetic curiosity one more question to drink in:

Is today the day where it all catches up to him?

Rain was falling, sending little watery breaths of relief. All he could hear was the pitter patter of the raindrops, the heaviness of his labored breathing, and --

He collapsed.

The sounds of footsteps scurrying away briefly entered his conscious as he sank further into the cement. Yeah, he had been taken down by a couple of idiots, but at least he wouldn’t have to watch the disbelief that the legendary  _Man in the Suit_ was taken down by… three young adults who couldn’t even handle basic military training.

They got lucky though, and _that_ in itself was a sign that he should’ve retired already. After all, eight years is a long time in this line of business.

Maybe Fi-- Maybe Harold was right.

But thinking about that particular conversation, one that occurred only hours before this moment, brought a pang of regret.

And John didn’t want to regret. Or think.

He just wanted to watch the rain.

But as the rain continued to fall, it swept down more thoughts with it. 

Mr. Reese supposed he would be walking out of life with a few regrets. He had never told Carter how much he appreciated her over the years, he never mentioned to Fusco that the cop has improved ever so slightly over the years. He hadn’t --and wouldn’t -- admit to either Shaw _or_ Root that he actually enjoyed their company from time to time.

And he had never given himself a chance to tell Harold that--

Yeah. John really didn’t want to think about the many regrets that involved that man. Especially that one.

So, this time he succeeded in tuning out his thoughts. He was able to just let the sweet rain envelope him. His clothes would be damaged beyond repair by the time anyone found him, _if_ anyone ever found him, but it was okay. 

It was okay because it was the vigilante that was bleeding out, not the reclusive billionaire.

Footsteps crept back into sound, hastily approaching. Back to the finish the job, then.

A faint smile melted into the rain because, even if he was about to die, he was happy to take down one more criminal with him. Fulfill his purpose one last time.

“ _John?_ ” 

After all these years, he really shouldn't have been surprised.

John slowly blinked and eventually allowed weary eyes to glare at his friend through blurred vision.

“You shouldn’t be here, Harold.” At this remark, a scoff brushed itself through the air, scattering a few spare raindrops. 

“John,” Harold just fixed him a certain look the vigilante knew all too well. “If you honestly expect me to just let you _die_ on me… Well, you should really know better by now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is totally an AU drabble that definitely takes place after season 5. Because I can be an obstinate writer who refuses to let her favorite characters just die on her.


	19. Once Upon A September

Cornfields fluttered by as he drove down the lonely, dark highway. Stars were scattered throughout the skies. And though he’d normally by very fascinated the stars and the skies, he seemed to be under some sort of spell that deterred him from even noticing.

He had woken up from his sleep only a few hours before, memories blending into dreams that told him where he needed to go. 

Harold had never been able to remember a single thing about his life, other than his first name and a quirky fascination with birds. He didn’t know where he came from, he didn’t know if he had any family or if he had another life that amnesia had stolen from him.

All he knew this is what he was supposed to be doing.

Memories that were just out of reach towered over his mind. Buildings and familiar faces seemed to haunt the car, though these were places and people that had never stepped foot inside.

He could remember a soft voice, the smell of books, and something else. Something else that was going to remain hidden until he finally reached his destination:

“Together in New York City.”

He didn’t know what awaited him there, but he knew that was where he was supposed to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could this be considered a crack AU? Yeah, probably. Am I considering this my Anastasia tribute? Yup


	20. Home

To sweet Bear, home used to include dust, the smell of things that were very old and _very_ edible, and the soft sounds of strange machines. There had only been two humans in the vicinity: Alpha and his mate. 

 

Sometimes, home was a crowded space that smelled of crime and reeked in general. Bear didn't always like that space, but he had to occasionally tolerate it. Fortunately, the soft petting of a warm hands followed by a kind voice -- a kind when speaking to Bear, that is-- made up for it.

 

And when that soft voice laughed at another voice, a voice that tried to be commanding but really wasn’t, home became even more so.

 

Now, home was darker. The soft sounds of strange machines still filled the space, but to Bear they seemed to echo even more so than before. Now, something unpleasant seemed to layer the air alongside the dust. The air still smelled very old but a different kind of old -- and there was nothing that really seemed to be edible.

 

But even still, when the rare moment came, a member of the Pack -- for there was now an Omega and her mate as well as the Alpha and his mate --  would come over and a hand would give Bear their undivided attention.

 

It was a strange space, one that Bear did not like as much as the first home. But, the cuddles of warmth still occurred on the occasional night with Alpha's mate. Those old smooth hands never did come back to loving pet him, but Omega's mate still affectionately played with his fur from time to time. And, even though they weren't as frequent, Alpha or Omega occasionally took him for a walk.

 

So, because Bear was still comforted with love and affection, it didn't matter where he was brought: he always felt right at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn’t Bear just a sweetheart?
> 
> This was my first attempt at speaking dog/werewolf/canine. Thank you for bearing witness to it!


	21. Diamonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quoted italics mostly refer to song lyrics this time. 
> 
> With this piece, all I’m asking for is for you to roll with it and have fun reading it. This is crack. And has hints of smut. And I definitely had a blast writing it.

“Oh, you’re kidding me.”

 

_“The French are glad to die for love,”_

 

This was one of the strangest cases Shaw ever had to work,

 

_“They delight in fighting duels!”_

 

It was a theatre case though, so Shaw supposed it made sense. The only other time Shaw has had a theatre case, she very confused and extremely irritated.

 

But, this time, she was only confused.

 

_“But I prefer a man”_

 

_Dear god she better not be looking at me._

 

_“who lives and gives expensive..._

 

_Jewels.”_

 

Root did not sing. Root did not sing at all. And Root definitely did not sing Broadway showtunes.

 

And if anyone ever accused Shaw of knowing the lyrics to said showtunes, her bullet wouldn’t hit their knee.

 

“ _A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,_

 

_But diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”_

 

Damn straight. Diamonds and steak that is. Who needs love when you can love a piece of meat or a nice rock?

 

But, _damn it, Root! Do_ not _start walking off the stage and into the audience._

 

_“A kiss may be grand, but it won’t pay the rental_

 

_On your humble flat! Or help you at the automat.”_

 

But she was. Root was actually walking off the stage and into the damn audience. And there was even a spotlight trailing behind her.

 

_“Men grow cold as girls grow old,”_

 

_Which is potentially why Finch and Reese are together_ , Shaw mentally snarked.

 

_“And we all lose our charms in the end.”_

 

_“But square-cut or pear-shape,_

 

_These rocks won’t lose their shape!”_

 

She makes a valid point. But why the hell Root was still walking over to Shaw -- especially in the middle of a case -- was something Shaw did not know the answer to.

 

And she did not want to know the answer to.

 

_"Diamonds are a girl’s best friend!”_

 

Yes. Diamonds, steaks, and restraining orders to keep ridiculously attractive women away from you. Ridiculously attractive women who were still slowly slinking over to your spot in the audience.

 

_“Romance is divine and I’m not one to knock it”_

 

_Yeah, right._

 

_“But diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”_

 

_“Romance is divine, yes, but where can you hock it?_

 

_When the flame is the gone,_

 

_Just try and pawn a tired Don Juan!”_

 

Why would you need to do that, when Finch has you covered with his money?

 

_“Some men buy_

 

_And some just sigh,_

 

_That to make you their bride they intend.”_

 

Now she was only a few feet away.

 

_“But buyers or sighers,_

 

_They’re such goddamn liars!”_

 

Now Root was only inches away. And completely ignoring the audience.

 

“Assassins are a girl’s best friends.” She whispered playfully, sotto voce. This in itself was throwing off Sameen’s focus.

 

But both women were lost to world when lips captured lips.

 

And when their perp of the day tried to escape the crowd after the surprise in the piece, he was suddenly taken out by some mysteriously attractive man in a dark suit.

 

Said man walked over to the women who were still lost to the world.

 

And then promptly turned around, knowing better than to interrupt such a moment.

 

Instead, he chose to activate his comm-link.

 

“Dinner, Harold?”

 

_“I’d be delighted, John. Just no place that serves steak. It seems I have temporarily lost any desire for it.”_ Mr. Reese could only concur.

 

But, at the mention of Shaw’s favorite food, John turned back to the women who were now entangled on the auditorium’s floor. He immediately looked away once more because the two women had definitely moved on from just kissing.

 

“Show’s over, folks!” He said to the other audience members who still hadn’t left the showcase. The director of said showcase seemed to be appalled -- and mildly impressed? -- at Root and Shaw's behavior, but when she tried to intervene John just held up a hand.

 

“Professor Thorn,” Having now worked with the Numbers for years, he was a little surprised that the professor in question didn’t seem surprised that a stranger knew her name. She merely turned to him, an eyebrow raised in mild anticipation at his explanation. “It would honestly be best to just close up shop and clean up in the morning. This is the part where the building could explode and they wouldn’t notice. They’re not going to be done any time soon, so it’s really in your best interest to leave before they get to the next stage.”

 

The woman could only stare at him, as a regretful curiosity crept into her thoughts. Before she could pose her question, he was already turning to say something to 

 

“Case is handled, by the way.” He said in the direction of the women still possessing the floor. He was not going to directly speak to them because there were just some images he didn't want in his brain. And with that, he turned around and proceeded to leave the room. He then continued on conversation with Harold, content to let the Root and Shaw do… whatever it is that Root and Shaw do.

 

After watching the couple continue to moan and move around the floor, Professor Thorn conceded his point with only slight amusement. She then proceeded into the sound booth before turning off all the auditorium lights and “closing up shop”.

 

_How am I going to explain this?_ But that thought was overshadowed by an even worse one:  _How am I going to walk over that spot without cringing or laughing from the absurdity of everything?_

 

Either way, Professor Thorn was really quite content to just let it be until the morning.

 

As the door closed behind the dear professor, Root took a breath of air and looked up.

 

“Finally." A smirk. "Some alone time.” She then turned her gaze back to the real star of the night.

 

Sameen was panting below her. But the tables were soon being turned because suddenly Sameen flipping her over and pinning her to the ground.

 

“Shut up.” Came the loving growl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say this was not something I expected to create. But I’m pleased with it, and I hope you’ve enjoyed this as much as I have.
> 
> On another personal note, I’m quite ecstatic to say I just got hired to be a writing tutor! The interview and offer just happened about an hour ago, and I’m just so thrilled!
> 
> Have a nice day!


	22. Who's a Good Boy?

It just figures that the only time that Lionel ever got positive attention from society was when he was being dragged through the streets of New York by a dog.

 

_“Oh, what a beautiful dog you have!”_

 

_“Oh, what a sweetheart you’ve got there! What’s his name?”_

 

And even still, with all the yammering and all the attention, everyone fixates on the dog.

 

_“Are they a he or a she?”_

 

Nobody bothers to ask what’s going on with the owner of the dog.

 

_“He’s a sweetie, isn’t it? And well trained, too!”_

 

He’d seen the looks Wonderboy received whenever women were swooning -- it wasn’t always about the Bear in that case.

 

And when Shaw took back what she deemed to be her dog, well he noticed the way some guys looked at her too.

 

(Though something told him Shaw was more interested in Cocoa Puffs than any Lucky Charms).

 

But when _he_ took care of the dog?

 

Forget about it.

 

“Who’s a good boy, Lionel?”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that Fusco just hasn’t been receiving all that much love in this series as of late -- something that I had to immediately rectify!
> 
> And for all those who expected something a little smuttier with a title like “Who’s a Good Boy?”, tsk tsk! 
> 
> Also, in honor of celebrating this fic's anniversary, July 30th of 2014, I will be posting the 23rd ficlet (and one of my favorites) on the 30th, instead of tomorrow.
> 
> But, I’ll be sure to do two updates on the 31st to keep us on schedule.
> 
> Have a nice day!


	23. If I Didn't Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, almost all the italics are song lyrics. Aka, we have fluff with a dash of angst here.

Time seemed to have slowly slipped away, until only one statement froze. And slowly spun itself around the room.

 

“Harold, I can’t ask anymore.”

 

Harold froze in his seat, having hoped that this day would never arrive.

 

He really didn’t want to lose John to the truth.

 

_If I didn’t care,_

_More than words can say_

 

John needed to know, but this couldn’t be spoken. Not directly.

 

This could be expressed in eggs benedict. Or illustrated by walking out onto a cold rooftop, knowing that they were both probably going to blow up.

 

_If I didn’t care_

_Would I feel this way?_

 

Would he have risked their covers by preparing to storm into Rikers if he didn’t feel this? Would he feel moved to unhesitatingly race to save John from Agent Snow if John was only an employee?

 

Harold didn’t do impulsive actions. Conversations were concocted and formed in his brain days before the interactions occurred. He mapped out contingencies for the contingencies that were required by his contingencies.

 

_If this isn’t love,_

_Then why do I thrill?_

 

When Mr. Reese had rescued him from Root, at the station, he had felt an immediate wave of fear and surprise fight the effects of Root’s sedative. He didn’t want John anywhere near this, he needed Mr. Reese to keep helping the numbers.

 

And, yet. There was also a tickle of warmth that ran down his spine because John was _actually_  there. Rescuing him.

 

And the haziness of a determined misery faded away because he didn’t have to face this all by himself.

 

He didn’t have to walk in the dark alone.

 

_What makes my head_

_Spin round and round_

_While my heart stands still?_

 

There were moments that he could have never predicted. Descents into deviant behavior, unappealing verbal self-defense lessons, doughnuts brought in on a whim, a protecting dog guarding every step of the way.

 

A moment in Italy where a man confessed to needing a suit.

 

_If I didn’t care_

_Would it be the same?_

 

He pretended to be unaffected by John’s charm, his warmth. Oh, he knew that Mr. Reese was going to be a fabulous employee.

 

But, he didn’t want to admit that he also realized John was also a fantastic friend.

 

_Would my every prayer_

_Begin and end_

_With just your name?_

 

The amount of times that name escaped his lips over the last few years was astonishing. There had always been boundaries. There was always a dull, uninviting barrier to keep out those who tried to look past his facades.

 

But, John was unique.

 

_And would I be sure_

_That this is love_

_Beyond compare?_

 

Harold knew he held a deep, fond regard for his friend. He was scared to find out what else there was.

 

(Because there _was_ something else)

 

_Would all this be true_

_If I didn’t care_

_For you?_

 

He couldn’t stop himself from turning around and looking at John, emotions clearly battling to show themselves on his face.

 

John only studied him in silence.

 

_If I didn’t care_

 

John wasn’t really good with relationships.

 

_Would it be the same?_

 

But he was willing to try.

 

_Would my every prayer_

_Begin and end_

_With just your name?_

 

“Harold,” The normal rasp was a lot gentler than normal.

 

_And would I be sure_

_That this is love beyond_

_Compare?_

 

One stepped forward. The other froze, scared of wanting what seemed to be impossible.

 

_Would all this be true,_

 

A hand longingly reached out, daring to enjoy the potentials.

 

_If I didn’t care..._

 

“Please.”

 

_For you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was definitely something I'm pleased with, and definitely something I would love to post on the anniversary of this little series. 
> 
> And, while I really am a “fade-to-black” kind of girl, I truly do hope you enjoyed that.
> 
> Furthermore, even though there is no clear resolution, I can say that they’re very happy. And that they do indeed care. Especially for each other.


	24. "About that, I don't like firearms very much."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, neither do I. But if someone has to have them, I’d rather it be me.”

This is one of those moments where Finch almost cursed his aversion to firearms.

Then again, with a bank robber who clearly has an itchy trigger finger, his disinterest was probably for the best.

“Mr. Reese,” He calmly activated the comm-link when the robber was sufficiently distracted. “It seems I might be needing your assistance today, after all.” 

There was a silence for a few moments. Finch thought that perhaps the vigilante had turned off his comm-link for some reason. Or, worse still, was just unable to respond for a more sinister reason.

Concern slowly began to creep into his breath, and his heart rate began to quicken ever so slightly. Finch was not one to easily scare, but this day was turning into an exception.

Since they had only been working together for a few months by now, perhaps this was a sign that this partnership wasn’t meant to last.

Which was almost a pity. Harold had begun to have lukewarm feelings towards the vigilante. It was almost a nice change from the icy, reserved tendencies he originally held.

“I’m a minute away, Finch.”

Perhaps it was the fact that Reese seemed to care. Maybe it was the fact the bank robber wasn’t doing the best of robbing the bank. It could have been that he was stumbling into shock.

Regardless, Harold suddenly felt rather relieved.

And when a familiar figure walked in through the back, having come in through the back exit, Harold couldn’t help but watch in mesmerization.

Mr. Reese was clearly in his zone, knowing exactly how to avoid the cameras and save the day. And Harold watched as serene exhilaration seemed to resonant from him, filling the room with possibility.

“Who the hell are you?” John smiled at this.

And suddenly, the perp was down. Kneecapped.

Everyone stared in confusion at the vigilante as tension started to bleed out of the room ever so slightly -- though caution still remained.

“A concerned friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble 1 of the day, 2 is on its way! 
> 
> Have a nice day :)


	25. Mustache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t believe they actually thought you were a man.”  
> “It’s all in the mustache, sweetie.”

“I can’t believe they actually thought you were a man.”

“It’s all in the mustache, sweetie.”

 

...

 

“Why won’t you let me kiss you, Sam?”   
“With that monstrosity still on your face?”

 

“... What if I told you I actually didn’t mind it?”

 

…

 

“Miss Shaw, I’m afraid I cannot help you in this regard. Miss Groves is entitled to make her own decisions, even ones with which you disagree.”

 

…

 

“Don’t even think about involving me, Root.”

 

…

 

“Did you really have the Machine orchestrate a Number that required me to shave off my mustache? That’s  _ so  _ sweet, Sameen!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I unintentionally wrote only 100 words for this piece (making it a true drabble) O_o. Never underestimate your ability to surprise yourself, people!
> 
> Also, having been mistaken for a boy now several times (ever since I cut my hair to a shorter length), I can safely say these things definitely happen. 
> 
> Granted, I don't think I'd go out of my way to wear a mustache (unless, I were cosplaying Poirot, of course :3).
> 
> Have a nice day!


	26. A Heavenly Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sameen,you’re not really going to choose that over me, are you?”

  
“Sameen,you’re not really going to choose _that_ over me, are you?”

  
The hotel room was dimly lit with electric candles scattered -- they couldn’t risk setting off the alarm with real ones, now could they?

  
Root was draped in a breathtaking silky black chemise. Lace blended with elegance, and there was enough showing -- but also enough left to the imagination -- for her current outfit to be considered tastefully risqué.

  
And on the countertop of the hotel room lay a delectable steak. Just waiting for her.

  
It was a very hard decision to make.

  
On one hand, she could be tasting heaven.

  
On the other hand, she could still be tasting heaven.

  
Why she couldn’t have both at the same time still escaped her.


	27. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized quotes are purely song lyrics today. Please, enjoy

  
They were standing outside in silence, content to let the drizzle slide another tough case off their shoulders.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch’s was rather serene, but there was a hint of surprise.

Something had caught his eye.

_“Look, look,”_

It gleamed in the sky, proudly offering its array of colors to the city through the sun kissed clouds. Mr. Reese followed his gaze, eyes widening ever so slightly.

_“Look to the rainbow,”_

It was certainly quite an unusual sight for New York City.

_“Follow it over the hill and stream,”_

It was certainly an even more unusual sight for them.

_“Look, look,”_

A breathy, _disbelieving_ laugh escaped, the vibrations tickling the air and floating up to the sky.

_“Look to the rainbow.”_

Hands reached out for comfort while eyes absorbed the gorgeous, unfamiliar sight in the sky.

_“Follow the fellow who follows a dream.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look to the Rainbow is quite a lovely song. And, the Masters of Harmony (an awesome men's chorus) does a fantastic medley of Finian’s Rainbow -- their version is the one that inspired me to write this piece.
> 
> And, today, I finally make it back home. Not only that, I just found out I don't have to fear for my health. So, this drabble really strikes a chord within me.


	28. Yes

“Can I tell you about my childhood?”

They had been lying side by side calmly when he softly asked. There was no grand climax before this, at least in the verbal regard. And there hadn’t been a pestering of questions in months.

That incessant line of inquiry had begun to cease after the two men realized nobody had to die on a rooftop.

And the fact that Harold’s question was straightforward and genuine made this moment all the more sweeter for John.

John took the subtle plot twist incredibly well in stride. He met Harold’s eyes with a beautiful smile. He deeply breathed in the moment, silently acknowledging the fact that he _finally_ didn’t have to ask.

And he responded with a heartfelt kiss.


	29. Ignorance is Bliss

  
“Finch, what do you know about a TV Show called Person of Interest?”

“You should know by now that I have no time to indulge in television, Mr. Reese.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to check this out.”

“Is there any reason in particular, Mr. Reese?”

“I think you’ll figure it out.”  
…  
A few minutes after their conversation, John went out of the library.

When he came back after a few hours, Finch still looked to be in shock.

“I’m sorry Harold,” He said, quite sincerely. “All of that work to keep everything a secret and--”

  
“Mr. Reese, please stop.”

It seemed the idea that someone, a Mr. Jonathan Nolan, came up with every secret they’d been hiding for the last few years. And also it seemed like that coincidence was just a little too much for Finch to currently handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We needed to bring back the crack and I always love this kind of concept. Granted, if you think about, the Machine would've put a stop to this if it were true… or maybe that's just the Machine wants us to think? (*dun dun duuunnnnn*)


	30. Afliggen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s freshen up a familiar scene with a different perspective, shall we? Thoughts will be italicized and unquoted. And, this will be one of those rare moments where I’m writing in first-person.

You know, normally, white knights and guardian angels have a certain finesse to them. Normally, they’ve got this smooth style where they’re ready to take care of all of your needs in a heartbeat. And, it goes without saying that almost all of their focus is on you.

They don’t talk to security cameras while ignoring you, they don’t disinterestedly walk through the whole “let’s save the damsel --or, in my case, the dude-- in distress” part. And they don’t just let you get kidnapped by the same people they’re supposed to protect you from.

Now, I am not one to ever complain or whine about the help I get it.

But when you’re tied up, have a gag ball stuck in your mouth, and are staring down pounds of crazy dog… you might not be so grateful for the "help" you got earlier.

“So, for the last time, Leon: where is the rest of the money?”

I personally think it is quite noble to keep the money away from these guys! Especially once I confirmed they're not the start-up company they said they were.

“I was trying to tell you!” Except, I couldn’t really speak through the gag, so it came out all weird. Thankfully, they removed the gag and I could actually breathe. BDSM is so not my style. At least, not this version of it.

“Double-dip recession, man. It happens. You didn’t want me to bet against America with your money, did you?”

That’s when the crazy dog started barking at me. Now, personally, I’d rather be taken down by a bullet than _that_. The damn thing looks like it would play with its food.

“See, Butcher here was a military dog.” Oh damn. “He was trained to sniff out the enemy.” And, Butcher was starting to growl. I really didn’t want it to do that. “Guy that had him, he didn’t have our money either. So he paid with his dog. And his balls!” _Oh sh_ \-- “Now, I gotta leave some of you for Titus. But, I’m sure he won’t mind if I get a headstart.”

I fought as much as I could, definitely not wanting that _thing_ anywhere near my precious gifts to the world. These were gifts that should always remain intact. “No! _No!_ ”

Butcher was barking again. The useless cop behind me, the fat guy, was being useless as per usual.

And then I think the door opened.

“Found us another playmate outside.”

“Ah, the tall, well-dressed guy.” _Thank you!_ I would take well-dressed and crazy over this other guy any day.

“That’s a good look for you, Lionel.”

I don't even _know_ what the cop was trying to respond with. But, it didn't matter: it was clear that this guy was being psychopathically calm and crazy.

But, like I said before, I am so not one to whine or complain about any help I get.

“You come into our house, brother, you better be packing more than just a handgun.” _Please tell me you have more than just a handgun. Please tell me you didn't think you gonna rescue me with only a handgun._

“Like I told your associate, I just want to find my friend.” _Is this friend just as crazy as you are?_ I can’t quite picture the kind of friends this guy would have, but maybe it was another crazy combat guy that would be saving them any moment now. “See, I don’t have many friends. Just the one, in fact.” _  
_

_“Hey!_ ”  
  
“Okay, maybe two. So here’s the deal: you give me Leon and Detective Fusco here -- and you can even leave the gag on -- and I’ll go peacefully.” I couldn’t help but stare at him. _Peacefully? Why the hell do you think they're just gonna let me out of here peacefully?_

Maybe, even with Mr. Crazy in the room, we are really screwed.

“And, what if we say no?”

“I guess I get my workout in for the day.” _Really, man? More like I get screwed_. Like I was saying before, Mr. Calm and Crazy wasn't a real guardian angel or fairy godmother. Especially if this was how he thought he'd be saving me from these guys.

“Oh, looks like Butcher here is gonna eat well tonight.”

“Nice dog.” For someone who really screwed us over by not being able to take out these guys before entering the room, the guy looked really calm. Even when Butcher began barking again.

“Belgian malinois.” _Cool, so you know the breed of the dog. How is that going to save me?_ “But you know, trained dogs don’t bark in alarm. They bark from anxiety.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, clearly, it doesn’t respect you.” _Why are you laughing, man? We’re about to die and you’re here talking about dog breeds._

“What? Something funny?”

“We used the same breed in my unit in Tikrit.” _Huh?_ “Only about three guys in the world that train dogs like this. The funny thing is, those guys, they only use Dutch commands. And I’m guessing you don’t speak Dutch.”

Was my weird psychopathic guardian angel about to get me out of here?

“Let it loose.” The barking started up again, and now I know we’re probably dead.

“Foei! Stil!” _What the fu--_ The damn dog is actually stopping. The damn dog is actually listening!

“ _Afliggen_.”

And when Fairy GodCrazy looked up with that creepy smile, I knew I might not actually die today.

_Whoa, I did not know you could do that with a gun._

Now, when the guy flew out of the window, I knew better than to say anything that would piss off Mr. Calm and Crazy. Though I still had one, rather important question to ask.

“Not a word, you hear me? We’re going back to my cruiser in total silence.”

“Sure thing, Lionel. Like a gag order.”

“Hey, hey, guys, think you could uncuff me?”

“No!”

_Okay, okay. Sheesh_.

And then Tall, Dark, and Insane whistled.

_Do you have to bring that_ thing _along?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it to thirty chapters! We’re still just getting started, but I am rather pumped to keep going! And I hope you are too :)
> 
> Have a nice day!


	31. An Old Tape

“They should pay me twice that to put up with her. Always sneaking around. Taking pictures. Crazy little girl, thinks she’s a spy.”

  
“I’m just practicing for my career.”

  
“Career doing what?”

  
“International espionage.”

  
… 

“Is everything alright?”

  
“You’re not gonna believe this, Finch. Shaw just got made by a ten-year-old.”

…

“Why would a big agency like that care what happens to me?”

  
“We’re not a big agency.”

  
“Why would a small agency care what happens to me?”

  
“We’re not any agency. We’re just a-- I don’t even know what we are. To be honest, I’m only in it for the dog.”

…

“You alright?”

  
“I’m fine.”

  
“I’m Shaw.”

  
“Nice to meet you.”

…

“It’s not that you don’t have feelings. It’s just like the volume’s turned way down. Like the sound of an old tape. The voices are there, you just have to listen.”

…

“Why do you have an Order of Lenin, Shaw?”

  
“None of your business, Reese.”

  
…

“Do you miss her, Miss Shaw? If you’d like I’m sure it’s possible to arrange--”

  
“We’ve got another Number, right, Finch?”  
… 

“Who’s Gen, Sameen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the dialogue in this drabble is unashamedly borrowed from “Razgovor”. I definitely enjoyed Gen’s episode and definitely wish we saw more of her on the show. 
> 
> Have a nice day!


	32. They Are Being Watched

I've always enjoyed people-watching. Delving into the snippets of a person’s life, guessing their backstory, and understanding their motivations is quite entrancing.

And, today, this particular couple only a few tables away from me is unusually fascinating.

Two men are sitting at the table. I can tell one of them is very prim and proper, clearly illuminating an appreciation for the finer things in life through his clothes. I’d guess he's not only rich, he’s also incredibly careful -- judging from his calculating mannerisms that speak not only of propriety but also of caution. This man understands the importance of taking his time with life. I can't imagine him scurrying through everything like so many others.

On the other hand, the man sitting across from him appears to be his polar opposite. This is the one I can only see the back of. But even his back is drenched in fear, in grief, and in pain.

He must have lost someone very recently. Much too recently for him to properly grieve, judging from the denial that seems to have clung onto him.

With a second glance, I realize they've both lost someone recently.

I cannot hear their conversation, but on a closer inspection I see the obvious signs of lost dictating the actions of the well-dressed man, too. He acts like he is at peace, yet his mannerisms are very withdrawn. Far too withdrawn.

And, now he's looking down at his newspaper, seeming to hide in it even though it cannot shield him. Regret seems to hang over their table and, while I have no idea what they're discussing… I feel sorry for them.

But the well-dressed man suddenly looks up, asking something. Stepping out from the protection of his newspaper and seeming to ask something important, judging from his expression.

The other man seems to shift in his seat, responding.

It's not a good response. Or, at least, I don't think it is. The well-dressed man seems to sink into himself, accepting whatever it is his companion is saying.

And then something changes.

And the faintest flicker of a hope emerges. Shock tries to hide behind glasses, but reveals itself in his gaping mouth. Nevertheless,it's almost too subtle a change for me to catch at this distance.

But I do see it.

And I see the caution recede ever so slightly.

He's not smiling or beaming with joy -- I don't really think that's in his character. But his body now lights up with something renewed, something beautiful to witness.

But, I can't keep watching. I find myself soon glancing down at my own table because, sometime after this change in emotion, they start heading in my direction. Leaving for their next moment together.

They make an unusual pair, from what my eye catches.

And, even hours after that tiny interaction, I still find myself coming back to that curious moment.

I do know I will never get an answer on how the pair continue on in life.

But I like to think they eventually find a way to accept and find their purpose in life again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do realize that if you watch this scene in 4C, you're not going to see any one individual sitting right behind them. However, I like to imagine there's another set of tables across the street :)
> 
> Have a nice day!


	33. Two Wrongs Do Make a Right

 

“Which hospital did they take him to?”

 

It had been a slow day until the latest case had been brought in. Go figure it couldn’t be just a simple crime. 

 

It just had to be a  _ mystery. _

 

Carter found herself feeling very unimpressed with the line-up of “victims”. However, her tone quickly changed to surprise when she had watched the tape.

 

…

 

“You know, you could’ve done me a favor and let those guys land a few more punches.”  He made no real attempt to interrupt her because she clearly wasn’t done speaking. 

 

“Question for you: looking at that tape, I’d say you spent some time in the service. But you don’t learn how to fight like that in the regular Army.” She sat on the desk, appearing to be more at ease in the situation than she probably should.

 

After all, this man before her took down several healthier  _ kids  _ in a heartbeat. 

 

She should be on edge. Any normal cop would at least be a little on edge.

 

But, then again, Joss Carter could never be considered normal.

 

“So, what were you? Special forces? Delta?”

 

No response. 

 

_ Well, whatever you were, they clearly didn’t train you how to speak. _

 

“I’m Carter. You didn’t give us a name.”

 

But, by this point, she knew better than to really expect a response, let alone a name.

 

Fortunately, this man also seemed to be not so normal himself. 

 

“You know, it’s funny. Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you’re in trouble. So, am I in trouble?” He really seemed indifferent to the whole situation. It was though he purposefully,  _ methodically _ embraced the cloud of sorrow coating his body. He seemed like the type of person that had lost their purpose and had become apathetic to the world because of it.  

 

And, while Carter didn’t know the details, she could guess the story. 

 

She just hoped it wouldn’t be the usual ending for his type.

 

…

  
  


So, now, she officially knew of the supercomputer. The Machine. Whatever it’s called.

 

She had finally confirmed the details.

 

But those details weren’t really all that important right now.

 

It was time to come back to a story she thought she already knew. A story that had actually changed from what she expected.

 

“I’m Carter. You didn’t give us a name.”

 

It wasn’t an indirect question this time, but she still said it for old times sake. 

 

“Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you’re in trouble.” He glanced up at her, a facetious air dancing around his serious eyes. The apathy had worn away, giving way to motivation. Dry humor had won the battle against stormy grief. Indifference faded to the shadows, while concentration clear lit his mind.

 

A purpose had been making its presence known for now  _ three  _ years.

 

“So, am I in trouble?”

 

Outwardly?

 

She was calm. Playful, even.

 

Inwardly?

  
Joss was surprised:

 

She had finally been  _ wrong _ about something once again.

 

But, this time, it was a good wrong.


	34. One Step Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with this piece we’ll be briefly stepping away from little tributes to canon scenes. But, interestingly enough, this piece is actually a little tribute to a fanon piece ^_^

“I must admit that I was rather surprised by your request to meet.”

 

“Hello to you too, Glasses.”

 

The reclusive billionaire faintly smiled at the detective’s typical greeting before choosing to sit down on one of the nearby park benches in effort to move these atypical proceedings forward.

 

Not too many people were about, making it quiet but not isolating. Moreover, there was still a tone of solitude caressing the pleasant grounds.

 

But they were not here to discuss the weather or the amiable setting.

 

Why they were here was still in fact a mystery to Harold.

 

And it seemed to be a mystery that Fusco didn’t seem to want to give away just yet.

 

“I hope that I do not come off as sounding rude, Detective, but I won’t be able to stay for much longer. So, what did you want to discuss?”

 

“Yeah, about that,” Finch looked at the detective, deciding that he didn’t particularly like that tone. It was a tone that had a hint of an unpleasant surprise and it was a tone that had him giving Detective Fusco his full attention.

 

But, by then, it was already far too late:

 

Harold had become handcuffed with ease.

 

“Detective? What on earth--”

 

“Sorry, Glasses, but it was necessary.”

 

Let it be known that birds of almost any kind despise being trapped. They will allow their space to be confined and they will adapt to the environment.

 

But they absolutely _despise_ being trapped.

 

And, by cuffing Harold to the park bench was essentially like trapping a bird in an invisible cage: something the man rather despised.

 

“Detective, it appears you have some explaining to do.” It was only at this point that Fusco sat down. At a safe distance, of course.

 

For, you see, the detective had been prepping for this moment for an entire week.

 

And all that preparation didn't help one bit.

 

“Well, ya see, Finch,” He paused, not having a clue on how to continue this without getting the third degree. But, after a moment, he just decided to plunge into the icy waters that used to be Harold’s compassion. “Well, it’s about to be May.”

 

Harold waited a moment, but it seemed that the detective had said all that he would in this moment.

 

“Yes, I can see that for myself. Would you care to explain the importance?”

 

“Well, ya see, John and I have noticed a pattern--”  


“Mr. Reese had a hand in this?” Oh, words were most certainly going to be spoken the next time he saw Mr. Reese

 

“Heh. Yeah, well Wonderboy and I noticed that things tend to go to hell come May. But, there was something else that also happens. Something we’ve noticed for the last couple of years.”

 

_Oh, really?_

 

“And what did you notice, _Detective_?” At this question, Fusco seemed to pause once more, as though debating on whether he should reveal something.

 

“Well, how do I put this?” Harold was not going to help him out this time. The reclusive billionaire was, in fact, sitting rather primly for someone who just got handcuffed. Furthermore, said billionaire seemed quite content to be glaring bullets into the detective. “Well, ya see…”

 

That painfully awkward silence fell once. But silence was still not going to prompt Harold to show any compassion to the detective.

 

“I advise you to speak very, very carefully about whatever it is you feel deigned to say next, Detective.” Now, patience was normally something Harold prided himself in. But, in situations where one has grown unwillingly attached to a park bench, even his patience was growing quite thin.

 

Fortunately, the detective seemed to be motivated to get a move-on with the conversation. Or, at least, motivated not to risk Harold’s wrath by beating around the bush.

 

“Well, you get kidnapped almost every year, Finch. And May just seems to be one of the worst months for it. We just figured we’d get ahead of the bad guys on this one.”

 

Okay. The cat was out of the bag and was now thrown among the pigeons. And, by the looks of it, Finch was gearing himself up to give Lionel a rather lengthy lecture on their behavior.

 

But, unlike Finch, Detective Fusco currently has free will.

 

And also the  ability to leave the conversation.

 

“Detective, I fail to see-- Detective, come back here! _Lionel_ \--!”

 

“Sorry, Finch, I really am! But, John will be by in a few hours to pick you up, so just sit tight.”  

 

“Detective!” But it was futile. Lionel was already out of earshot.

 

Harold resorted to glaring at the backside of the detective before tugging at and testing his handcuffed wrists.

 

Yes, _both_ wrists had been cuffed, much to his immense irritation.

 

Let it be known that even birds can fume in frustration.

…

 

By the time Detective Carter approached him with a sandwich, he actually had to refrain from growling. Whether was that was due to hunger or irritation was something he’d probably never know.

 

“How’s life treating you, Finch?” She asked innocently, as though greeting and friend. He merely glared at her, finding her facetious question to be quite irritating, truth be told.

 

“You know perfectly well how life is treating me, Detective.” She smiled, unashamedly enjoying the fact that she was the one in control of the situation.

 

“John wanted me to drop and see how you were doing.”

 

“And when will Mr. Reese be _dropping by_?” It was a polite inquiry drenched in a frigid tone. And, it caused her to smile again, even let out a little laugh, before placing the sandwich on his lap.

 

“When he thinks it’s safe to approach you.”

 

“Yes, well, I have sufficient reason to doubt that I will not be ‘safe to approach’ for quite some time.” And when she laughed this time, Harold couldn’t help but mildly appreciate it: it was truly a lovely sound that definitely wasn’t heard often enough.

 

“I believe it.”

 

“Pardon my lack of tact, but why give me a sandwich when my hands are clearly preoccupied?”

  
“Don’t ask me. I can now see your hands are a little full and John _knows_ that I am not going to hand feed you.”

 

“Indeed. Thank you for that.” Because while Harold was hungry, he most certainly wasn’t desperate.

 

They sat in friendly silence, a kinder one than before. And, after a while, Harold let go of a smidge of his frustration.

 

After all, Joss had no real hand in his apparent kidnapping. And, while he was still infuriated with turn in events, he now had some time to cool down. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

 

“Well, duty calls.” But then a thought occurred to him as she got up.

 

“Wait, a moment, Detective!” She paused, her back already to him.

 

Being outside for this long must have been getting to him if it had taken him this long to realize this.

 

“You do know that you could easily have gotten Detective Fusco’s keys and uncuffed me.”

 

Another laugh again, this one tasting of disbelief.

 

“Maybe so. But, I would never want to get in the way of one of John’s plans.” _Unless it involved waiting in the car while he gets himself pummeled._ “Sorry, Finch, but this time his plan is for the best. Nevertheless, give Shaw my regards and say hi to Bear for me!”

 

…

 

Fortunately, Miss Shaw was not his third visitor.

 

Nor was it Bear.

 

“Mr. Reese,” By this point, Finch was more relieved than anything to finally see his employee and friend. Nevertheless, while he understood Mr. Reese’s desire to be protective, he personally felt this whole situation was going a bit too far.

 

“Harold, you didn’t eat your sandwich.”

 

“Yes, well it’s a little difficult to do that seeing as how both my hands are currently preoccupied!”

 

But John seemed to be ignoring that little fact. And moving down to sit in the danger zone: the open spot right next to Harold.

 

“Here, why don’t I help you eat?”

 

“Mr. Reese, I am not a child--” But by then the sandwich was already being inserted into his mouth.

 

And, for a sandwich that had been sitting out for several hours, it was surprisingly good.

 

Granted, Harold had to admit that he was practically starving. To the point where even Miss Shaw’s attempt at a meal would be a heavenly feast for the picky man.

 

The sandwich was unapologetically demolished in seconds

 

“Water?” That received a half-hearted glare. But dehydration won the battle and soon Harold was finishing off the water bottle Mr. Reese had brought along just for him in minutes.

 

“And now that you’ve been assured I’ll be in a better mood, can you please free me from my current restraints?” John looked at Harold, observing his friend for just a few moments.

“Contrary to what seems to be popular belief, Mr. Reese, I do not care to spend the entire day in this position.”

 

That prompted the keys to his restraints to be brought out, and soon Harold found him actually able to move his wrists. He began sorting out regaining feeling in his body again, finding relief in the fact that he had somewhat regained mobility.

 

“So, how was your day off, Finch?” He scoffed at this question.

 

“I would hardly call it a day off, Mr. Reese. Especially considering the fact that -- Oh, yes, -- I was _forced against my will_ to remain here _all day_.”

 

Granted, Harold could concede that it was partially pleased to have spent the day in the park. Surprisingly, nobody bothered him throughout the hours he had spent outside. And he was fortunate enough to have selected a bench that had remained mostly shady throughout the day.

 

But he not be conceding that point to Mr. Reese any time soon.

 

He yawned, not realizing how much energy it took to be in one spot for several hours.

 

“So, who was helping you today, Mr. Reese? It couldn’t have been me seeing as I was temporarily detained.” John smiled at this.

 

“It was a quiet day today, Harold.”

 

“We never have those.”  


“Well, there’s always an exception for every rule.” Harold harrumphed at this, suddenly getting the suspicious feeling that even the Machine played a hand in today’s events -- or lack of events thereof.

 

But, for once, he was too tired to debate the consequences of this inappropriate use.

 

He merely looked back at John, trying to maintain a disapproving stare.

 

“You know, I don’t really think there’s a pattern to my kidnappings. I think it just happens to be a coincidence that they tend to occur around the same time.” John softly smiled at this. It was the “That’s a nice thought and I’ll let you continue to think that, but you’re definitely wrong” smile.

 

Harold blinked again, frowning at this. Being outside all day must be getting to him: he was beginning to feel unusually sleepy.

 

“Mr. Reese,” He started, before getting caught by a yawn.

 

Oddly enough, John’s smile seemed to change in its attitude.

 

“Yes, Finch?”

 

It almost seemed to be... Well, Harold wasn’t really sure. The word formed a haze around the front of his mind, dancing just out of sight.

 

“I think…” _What was that word?_

 

“I really am sorry, Harold. But this really is for your own good.”

 

“What do you mean, Mr. --” He tried to get up off the bench, muscles aching from being stuck in same spot for too long a time. But the world suddenly twirled, and his balance became sharply knocked aside by discombobulation.

 

John didn’t seem at all surprised or shocked by this.

 

“I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me for quite some time.”

 

He was quite literally falling into John’s arms as the ex-assassin’s voice floated around him.

 

“The good news is that these things seem to usually ease up around September. So we won't have to wait all that long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, this is totally inspired by Wuchel1’s FFN piece “One Step Ahead”, and it is my attempt at a prequel for the set-up in that story. Wuchel1’s story is definitely worth the read!
> 
> Hope you’ve enjoyed, and have a nice day!


	35. Grace

Sometimes, she thinks she can see him. 

 

Sometimes, she thinks his ghost lovingly haunts the city.

 

After all, she would never know for sure if he _did_ die at the ferry.

 

And, she could never know for sure if what seemed to be the shadow of his smile-- the briefest hint that someone else enjoyed ice cream in the winter, the occasional, a familiar figure hovering nearby whenever she saw a certain tea stand-- was in fact reality or her imagination.

 

However, she liked to believe that it was him that gave her art opportunities when nothing seemed possible. She liked to believe that the commissions that came out of thin air was his way of saying he’d be there for her, no matter what.

 

So, she enjoys the hints she finds. She smiles when she hears a familiar chuckle caress the air, when she sees a pair of glasses she  _ knows _ he would wear.

 

And she loves the fact that she can still see his inspiration in her artwork. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do rather enjoy Grace and she deserves at least one ficlet in this collection.
> 
> (Also, did any barbershoppers in the crowd catch the tiny reference to a tag? ;D)


	36. Nice to meet you, Harold

“Trust the process.”

And then a phone rang, calling out for attention. He only had to glance at the screen for a moment to recognize the number and gasp out of relief:

John was okay.

“Mister Reese, what a relief to finally hear-- ”

_“Mr. Reese? Of course. I figured Riley wasn’t his real name.”_

_Oh dear._

_“Nice to meet you, Harold. Can’t wait to start working together.”_

“Where is John?”

_“Don’t worry about John. Long as you cooperate, he gets to keep on breathing.”_

Harold could only imagine the scene and found himself unable to stop. He normally kept his calm. It was unusual for him to let pathos cloud his judgment.

But this was John.

 

So, the unfortunate possibilities were quickly being coded into his memory with ease.

Now, he really didn’t want to predict the possibilities. The scenes where John might not get to keep on breathing.

It would just be another reminder of another one of his mistakes and another loss of an astonishing friend and another--

_“We’ll send you a new location, be there in fifteen. Alone.”_  
…

“Looks like we found our Harold.”

It was extraordinarily nice to _finally_ put a voice to a name.

But... why did that voice sound weirdly familiar?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, bad news: a migraine has been strongly limiting me from a lot since last night.
> 
> Good news: I wrote up for the next few, pre-migraine, so it's just a matter of slight editing and posting.
> 
> And this is just a reminder that we should make sure to take care of ourselves. 
> 
> Have a nice day!


	37. Until the End

“Last words. Make them count.” The phone was pushed carelessly against his face, but even that pain didn’t compare to the thought of these bastards doing anything to his boy.

 

_“Dad?”_

 

“Lee? Lee? It’s going to be okay”

 

No. It wasn’t. Lionel was content to die after all the dirty crimes he couldn't undo.

 

But, he couldn’t just let his son leave this world.

 

Not Lee.

 

At least they were in this together. At least he could give his boy something to cling to, a voice to guide the fear away.

 

“I’m right here with you, okay? I’m right here with you.”

 

And he would be. Right until the very end.

“Just close your eyes, alright?”  


God, this was worse than a damn nightmare.

 

He would take the uncertainty of a dark forest, he would stare down a bullet, take a shot, anything other than this.

 

“I love you, it’s going to be okay.” The shakes wouldn’t stop, and all he could hear was the sound of a lone shot that seemed to ring out and stab his own heart.

 

_No. No. Not Lee. Please, God, not Lee. Please please, please, this can’t be hap--_

 

Tears began to fall as he went past the point of being overwhelmed. All he could hear was that shot. His entire body was shaking from the grief. But Lionel couldn’t bring himself to notice, let alone care.

 

_“Lionel?”_

 

Shaw’s voice floated out to him like a dream.

 

But he couldn’t dare believe what that meant.

 

_“It is going to be okay. Lee is fine, but the guy they sent to kill him isn’t doing so good.”_

 

_Is this real?_

 

_“Figured these scumbags would come after your kid.”_

 

Well, even if it were a dream,

 

“Thank you. Thank you.”

 

Even if he were really going into shock and this was his brain coping with his fate,

 

_“But Lionel,”_

 

Even if none of this was real….

 

_“You understand this means I can’t be there for you.”_

 

He knew it was going to be okay.

 

_“I had to choose. Figured you’d want me to come here instead.”_

 

“You did good, you did good.”

 

_“I’m sorry, Lionel.”_

 

But, there was nothing to be sorry about.

 

Because a calming fury was bubbling into Lionel’s core.

 

And, _really_ , everything _was_ going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been far too long since Fusco took the center stage in these short stories. And, once again, it's time to step away from dipping into angsty canon scenes and return to fun fanon concepts. 
> 
> Have a nice day!


	38. Wingwoman to the Rescue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, we’re back! To the crack, that it is. After that last piece, I think we need it. 
> 
> I admit, I cry just thinking about that particular scene of Fusco’s in that arc (let’s face it, that whole arc makes me unhappy). 
> 
> So, let’s get to today’s adventure, shall we?

The room swirled around him as he woke up. He had no recollection of how he even got…  wherever it was that he was. He only remembered sitting in his living room, getting ready for his favorite past-time: picking a book at random to read in one sitting.

 

But, there didn’t seem to be any books in this room. He wasn’t completely convinced -- the room was still swirling around him, after all --  but there really didn't seem to be anything in this room.

 

_“Are you ready to have some fun, Harry?”_

 

He groaned a little, recognizing the flirtatious voice echoing around the walls.

 

It was the infamous Root of All Evil, as the newspapers called her.

 

Not only was she a hacker, she was also a villainess. Some even considered her to be a world-class criminal mind.

 

She was a woman who not only stunned the police, but also the headlines. After all, nobody has ever caught her since she began her crime sprees almost six years ago. And, even though she gave warnings from time to time, she always managed to commit any crime she wanted.

 

Ironically, it usually happened in plain sight.

 

Fascinatingly enough, she seemed to be more of a Poison Ivy kind of character rather than a Catwoman. That is, in the sense that she was committing crime for the purpose of freeing machines and technology from evil corporations rather than for personal gain.

 

At least, that’s what her following on the Internet said.

 

Harold didn't really mind that she had taken steps to illuminate the injustices committed via technology.

 

He just disagreed with some of her principles. And her methods.

 

But, the interesting thing is that Root had now started to add a different type of crime to her routine. For about the last month and a half, she had turned to kidnapping.

 

She frequently went after targets either in their 40s to early-50s, almost always male. And they tended to be intellectuals or, at least, appeared to appreciate intelligence. Furthermore, they usually specialized in technological field of any --

 

_Oh. Oh dear._

 

The room stopped spinning, but it was too late: Harold finally figured out exactly what was going on.

 

And now he had to face reality.

 

“Have you abducted me?”

 

The speaker on the wall chuckled, and he cringed at the tinny quality.

 

_“Much faster than dear, sweet Nathan was. And, cuter, too.”_ Nathan Ingram, his boss’s boss’s boss, was reported to be the last kidnapped victim. Fortunately, the city’s famed hero had come to rescue him in record time.

 

“Why would you be interested in me?” Harold calmly asked, determined not to give in to his growing alarm.

 

Granted, that was a little challenging to not give in when he was still unable to get off the floor. But, even had he managed to get off the floor, it would have made no difference: he would still be trapped in this empty, _creepy_ room.

 

_“Please, call me Root, Harry.”_

 

She obviously wasn't going to respond to any of his questions.

 

So, he tried a different tactic. “If this is like all of the other kidnappings, I will be rescued in no time!” _Though, I'm sure he has more important things to do. My life is not as important as protecting New York City, after all._

 

Laughter emanated once more from the speakers, and Harold froze as he heard the sound of a gas hissing into the room. But, he couldn't see where it was coming from -- the car accident he had been in several years ago still caused him problems with mobility, much to his frustration. He could only lie uncomfortably on the ground, looking in front of him for this gas that could be coming from any direction.

 

“That's exactly what I'm counting on.” _What did that mean?_ “Go to sleep, Harry. It'll be time to have some fun soon enough.” Her falsely innocuous tone drifted one last time through the room. And, before he knew it, the room was spinning around him once again.

 

…

 

“Sir? Are you alright?”

 

He felt himself being stirred again. Unfamiliar warmth surrounded him. A weak mumble tried to free itself from his throat, but only an unintelligible croak emerged.

 

“Are you alright?” The deep voice repeated. It definitely wasn't one he recognized, but it was surprisingly gentle.

 

And that voice was also... _Comfortable._

 

Harold groaned, feeling himself being supported by strong arms. He unconsciously leaned into the protective embrace, still unsure of exactly what was going on. His couch didn’t normally feel this nice, and there really wasn't any reason for a stranger to be in his house--

 

_Oh. That’s right…._

 

Eyes blinked opened and caught sight of the one, the only, Superman in a Suit.

 

Harold tried to move, but felt more sluggish than he had in years. Furthermore, the Superman in a Suit -- or, to keep it brief, Superman -- didn’t seem to approve of this.

 

“Sir, you need to stay still.” Harold could only look up, unable to move his body at all. But he was still managing conveying confusion and frustration at this unusual  predicament. “Really, it’s okay. Don't try to move. She gave you a pretty strong knock-out gas, but she's gone now and there's nothing to worry about.”

 

_Well, that's a relief._

 

And a relief that Harold apparently conveyed in an obvious manner. For Superman let out a delectable laugh at and Harold was suddenly rather grateful for the fact that he’s never really been able to blush.

 

Because, if he had been caught blushing, he’d probably unwittingly admit to being turned on by a _laugh._

 

Well, he had to admit that the strong arms keeping him from the floor were also helping.

 

But that laugh was an exquisitely charming sound, probably the most entrancing sound he’s heard in quite some time.

 

“I must say, you have rather impeccable timing, Mr. Superman.” Superman paused, looking down at Harold.

 

“That's the first time anyone has ever called me _Mister_ Superman.” He said wryly, prompting a drowsy laugh.

 

…

 

Upon Harold being returned to his house, the duo realized there was one issue: the man was still too drugged to move.

 

Which meant he couldn’t get himself through the door, let alone into his bed.

 

“I'm so sorry for this indecency--”

 

“Relax, sir. This is no trouble at all.”

 

“Please, call me Harold.” At the raised eyebrow, he managed to compose a sluggish yet witty response, “Somehow, Mr. Wren doesn't seem to be appropriate if you're going to help me into bed.”

 

Superman laughed at this even as they both studiously avoided each other’s gaze.

 

…

 

When Superman had shown up at his doorstep a few nights later, Harold had been surprised -- and more than a little concerned.

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

“Root was spotted near this area earlier this evening. She doesn't have a habit of coming back to her kidnapped victims, but…” The concern was obvious, and Harold’s lips twitched in the form of a smile even as the back of his mind grew in alarm.

 

“I understand, Mr. Superman.” A faint smile emerged at the title, and for that Harold felt the agitation was quite worth it.

 

…

 

After the third week of checking in to make Root didn't kidnap him, Harold felt a mixture of consternation -- for what this may imply -- and trepid exhilaration -- for the possibilities.

 

…

 

It had been the fifth week that prompted him.

 

“Well, I've checked the area for her and--”

 

“Would you like to get lunch with me at some point?” It was an incredibly bold move, especially for him. But the words intrepidly flew out before he realized what he was saying. “I would suggest dinner, but I wouldn't be interested in an automatic rain-check because of your... _night job_.”

 

Superman paused, having already had his back to Harold by this point.

 

And the stutter in conversation grew to an awkward silence.

 

An awkward silence that begged for that previous question to be forgotten or, at the very least, dropped.

 

“Actually, just ignore that little request. I’m sure as New York City's primary asset and superhero--”

 

“Lunch would be great _._ ” Harold paused, head raising from the ground ever so slightly. His mouth had slightly opened at this and he found himself frozen, unable to respond.

 

“Glad to hear it.” He paused again, having no idea what kind of food a crime fighter would be interested in. “... How about Italian?”

 

Harold felt the unexpected glow of hopefulness long before Superman turned around.

 

“Italian sounds great.”

 

…

 

Fortunately, the first lunch had been gawky only in the beginning.

 

And that was only because they had bumped into one of Harold’s coworkers right before they got to the place.

 

“Hi, Dave,” Came the awkward response. John had been surprised to see his fr-- to see Harold withdraw so quickly into himself.

 

Especially considering how self-assured the man seemed when asking John out to lunch only two nights ago.

 

“I hope you don’t think you’re allowed to be late to today’s meeting because of your _lunch date,_ Harold.” Because it apparently couldn't be Dave without the incredibly patronizing response.

 

Harold just nodded. “Of course not. I’ll be there.”

 

“Good. I’d really hate to see you fall even further behind.”

 

John’s eye twitched.

 

But, the sight of Dave _accidentally_ tripping into a door on the way to his own lunch made the interaction slightly worth it.

 

_“John!”_ The reprimand was sharply whispered the moment it became socially acceptable.

 

“It’s not my fault the guy lost his balance, Harold.” Harold huffed at this, knowing perfectly well what really transpired.

 

After all, in order to get to their destination, John had to pass Dave in the process.

 

_Clumsy, indeed._

 

…

 

“Damn.” Came the unusually colorful remark.

 

Then again, this was an unusually dreary situation.

 

In a matter of a minute, the rain had moved past the drizzle phase and skipped over to the storming buckets part.

 

And, of course, today was the one day he’d forgotten to bring an umbrella to IFT with him.

 

He tilted his head forward, determined to focus on getting to his car. It was only three blocks away, and he could use the exercise -- even if he didn’t particularly care for the rain.

 

But he only got down half a block when the rain decided to stop.

 

Or rather, he only got down half a block when the rain bounced around him, instead of soddening his very being.

 

He lightly scoffed at this, feeling inordinately -- but _not_ unpleasantly -- surprised.

 

“Don’t you have a job?”

 

“I'm just doing what I'm paid to do: protect the citizens of New York City.”

 

“Nobody pays you to do that.”

 

“And how would you know that, Harold? Have you been spying on me?”

 

“Yes, I've built a secret surveillance system that spies on only you for every hour of every day.” The deadpan rang out.

 

And soon cued the laughter.

…

 

“So, what’s good here, Harold?”

 

They were sitting at the booth of a diner that John had never been to.

 

Nevertheless, it was clear Harold had been here several times: he didn’t even have to glance at the menu.

 

No, Harold was quite content to continue their conversation about the use of surveillance systems instead of peruse the menus set before them.

 

However, upon being questioned about the menu, the man paused before allowing a soft smile to emerge.

 

“Try the eggs benedict, John. I’ve had them many times.”

 

…

 

He had been late to lunch, far too late.

 

So late his companion had already cracked open a book. And was clearly past the first chapter.

 

“You like to read?” Disbelief.

 

How could someone else, after all, enjoy reading? Someone who, except for the night job of course, seemed perfectly normal?

 

“Yeah,” John looked up from the novel, translucent amusement dancing in his eyes. “It’s not my go to for entertainment, but it gets the job done.”

 

…

 

“So, does she really now have a partner in crime?”

 

“That _is_ what the newspapers are saying.”

 

“And, judging from that newly formed bruise, I’d say you’re inclined to agree.”

 

...

 

“You know, you have so much potential, Harold.”

 

“Oh?”

 

By this point, they’d lost count of the number of meals they’ve shared.

 

And, still, Harold had no idea who John was. And, the best part?

 

He didn't care.

 

All he knew is that eight months after his kidnapping John had knocked on Harold’s door with no suit in sight. All he knew is that eight months ago, Harold had been entrusted with a breathtaking secret:

 

The man _behind_ the suit.

 

“You've been at this IFT company for more than a decade now, but it's so clear that your coworkers don’t really respect you.”

 

“Dave is not the only one of his kind.” Though, there were admittedly more Dave types at IFT than any other.

 

“Yeah, well, whenever we talk about your work you’re not really happy.” Harold paused at this remark, knowing it to be true.

 

“So, what, do you think I should be switching jobs? Go to another tech company?” It had been a wryly asked with no serious response expected.

 

Nonetheless, the thought of leaving IFT wasn’t foreign to him, even if he didn’t pay it much attention.

 

It's not that Harold didn't enjoy coding. Far from it: coding was most certainly one of his main joys in life, one of the reasons he felt a reason to keep trying.

 

But, it was hard to enjoy coding when your supervisors claimed your code to be theirs. When your ideas on making IFT more efficient were shot down. When you became an invalidated person because all people could see was your handicap.

 

So, while Harold had nothing against Ingram, he had... frustrations with the company culture.

 

To say the least.

 

“-- purpose.”

 

“My apologies, John. I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that.” John nodded at this, undeterred in the slightest.

 

“I don’t think you need to go to some other tech company or ask for a promotion. You’re clearly more than competent,” The technical conversations they’d been having for the last few months showed John as much, “It’s not really about being or gaining new knowledge in your case.” Harold was a little stunned that John gave this whole situation all of this energy.

 

But, as uncomfortable as Harold was with change -- with the unpredictable, the _unknown_ \-- he felt somewhat comfortable with this conversation.

 

“So, what do I need, John?”

 

“You need a purpose. More specifically, you need a job.” Harold tilted his head, asking for elaboration.

 

“It’s not that you don’t already have a job. It’s that you don’t seem to have a very fulfilling job. Or, at least, a job where the work you do really makes a difference.” A tiny smile emerged at this statement.

 

“And, where do you think I could find that kind of employment?”

 

…

 

In the Fall of 2011, the Superman in a Suit’s ability to fight crime skyrocketed.

 

No one is sure exactly how or why this improvement occurred, but the statistics -- and the criminals -- concur in this regard.

 

Some speculate he captured some sort of genie in a bottle that he's forced to help fight crime, proving that even heroes aren't always so noble.

 

Others believe that he managed to construct a surveillance system that would allow him to predict when a crime would be committed.

 

Root would merely laugh at these theories when she saw them, feeling rather tickled by the Internet’s outlandish thoughts.

 

The best theory by far was that the Superman in a Suit was a government android secretly mind-controlling bad guys to surrender. Best in hilarity, that is, not actuality.

 

But, there'd be time to laugh at speculations later. Other matters were calling her attention right now.

 

“C’mon, Sameen! We better get going before John and his adorable Finch come to save the day!”

 

Her partner in crime merely gritted her teeth, refraining from growling at Root’s unnecessary bubbliness.

 

“What did I tell you about ever calling me by my first name?” A pause, a switch in gears. “Isn't his partner named Wren?”

 

“True!” Root said, intent on ignoring Shaw’s translucent threat. “But I’ve always seen him as more of a Finch than a Wren.”

 

Shaw merely blinked at this, not really knowing the difference.

 

And, honestly?

 

She didn’t care.

 

But, then she heard the sound of a very familiar, very _annoying_ , superhero in the distance.

 

“Fine, whatever. You’re buying dinner this time. And it's not gonna be cheap this time.”

 

“Aww, Sameen, you say the sweetest things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was actually inspired by a Reddit prompt I slightly modified:
> 
> Original Prompt - You're a super villain infamous for kidnapping attractive members of the opposite sex. While everyone thinks you're really evil, you're just being a wingman for your superhero rival.
> 
> And, this was such a blast to take their normal roles and slightly modify them. I hope you've enjoyed it!
> 
> Also, I would just like to thank you for tagging along with me in this collection. It's certainly by no means done -- we've not even gotten to 50 ficlets let alone all 100 -- but the unexpected kudos, comments, subscriptions, and overall appreciation has left me speechless on numerous occasions in the last few weeks.
> 
> So, thank you. And, truly, have a great day!


	39. Taunting Sweetness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this dash of angst in advance. It appears I cannot quite stay away from it.

He had made it to the ground floor, still shocked at his decision.

It really should’ve been him on that rooftop.

“Finch, you need to keep moving.”

He rigidly stopped, longing and bitterness beginning to seep into his veins.

“Keep moving for me, Harold. _Please_ ”

He knew that voice couldn't possibly be echoing into the space. Those vocal chords had blown up only moments ago. And the wind had coldly snatched his friend’s ashes long before Harold ever could

But… if he didn't actually make it to a hospital or some form of medical treatment….

If this were really to be his last day among the living….

At least it was to be spent with a hallucination.

A sweet, _taunting_ hallucination.

A beautiful fiction supplied by his cynical, humoring mind. A reminder of the horrible decision he made: to honor his friend’s last selfless request.

Harold calmly turned around, catching the painstakingly familiar gaze -- undoubtedly catching it for the last time.

However, bitterness would not win against desperate longing.

So, the man forced his weary mind to capture his employee’s weary smile. He limped forward to walk next to wonderful, worn down company.

He pushed through all of the shock, the aches, and the pain to join a dearly beloved friend _one last time_.

“Hello, John.”


	40. The Bunny Strikes Back

“Dad, I'm thirteen now! I really don't think--”

 

“You know, the bunny look is a great look for you guys!”

 

“You have five seconds to back away, Lionel, and _only_ five seconds. And then I am not responsible for anything.”

 

“Why don't we just let Shaw alone, dad? Don't you remember what your friend did after we took a photo with him?”

 

“Alright, alright. I get it, I get it. You didn't like getting doused in chocolate."

 

_"_ Thank you--"

 

"But, first, I need some evidence that this even happened. And, I know for a fact Cocoa Puffs would love a pic--!"

 

"Time's up,  _Lionel._ "

 

"What the hell did you do that for?!”

 

“You kind of deserved that, Dad.”

 

“Lee, if you know what's good for you--!”

 

_“Miss Shaw, would you care to explain to me what just transpired?”_

 

“Lionel was getting in the way of my cover, Finch. It's not my fault he tripped into a cotton candy machine”

 

_“Really, Shaw?”_

 

“Don't tell me you didn't want to do the same, Reese?”

 

_“Mr. Reese would never dream of taking such actions. Right, Mr. Reese?”_

 

_“...”_

 

_“Mr. Reese?”_

 

“Sameen, if you've been wanting to role-play you could have just told me so!”

 

“Role-play? Does she mean like dungeons and dragons, dad?”

 

“Don't even _think_ of taking a picture with me!”

 

“... Something like that, son.”

 

_“Miss Groves, I believe that--”_

 

“Yes?”

 

_“... Nevermind. Please, just focus on Olivia. We still don't know if she is the victim or the perpetrator.”_

 

“Sure thing, Harry!”

 

_“Mr. Reese, you never answered my question.”_

 

_“... About that, Finch.”_

 

_“.... Choose your next words very carefully, Mr. Reese.”_

 

“Yeah, _Mr. Reese._ ”

 

_“...”_

 

_“Mr. Reese, growling is not an appropriate response.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bunny said I needed to make up for going back and forth between angst and fluff, and be consistent for a few ficlets/drabbles. 
> 
> And so, because the bunny asked this time and not any jar demanding a heart, I can safely say that we'll be stepping away from hardcore angst for a little while.


	41. Of Airports and "Inappropriate" Affections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little… risqué. And, for more than one couple (*dun, dun dunnnnnn*).

“Now, why would anyone be interested in an airport guy?”

 

_“That is an excellent question, Miss Shaw. And, unless I am mistaken, it is also one that you and Miss Groves are currently being paid to figure out.”_

 

Shaw raised an eyebrow at the irritated sarcasm that was very thinly veiled as sass. It wasn’t the first time in the last few months that Finch had spoken in a tone screaming of derision. But, these comments were becoming more and more frequent.

 

And more irritating, too.

 

“Sounds like someone could use a vacation.”

 

_“We don't get vacations, Miss Shaw. We get Numbers. Speaking of your job, are you feeling sure you are up to the task today? Or is this badgering an obscure technique you learned from your previous employers?”_

 

“What are we thinking, Reese, perp or victim?” ” She was quite content to pose her own question and ignore the previous ones.

 

 

_“Your guess is as good as mine, Shaw.”_

 

_..._

 

“Maybe he's going to bring a bomb into the place.” Came the sarcastic drawl, hours after the previous conversation.

 

But there was no immediate, withering response from her comm-link.

 

And that lack of response gave cause for suspicion.

 

(Well, curiosity more than anything. Suspicion would only kick in after thirty seconds of silence.)

 

“Guys?”

 

Nothing.

 

“Finch?”

 

“ _I assure you, Miss Shaw, t_ _here's no cause for alarm.”_ But was it just her imagination or did Finch sound a little… _breathier_ than normal?

 

She paused in their interaction, re-playing his response in her mind.

 

And proceeded to smirk.

 

Maybe she wasn't the only one who thought the geek needed a vacation.

 

“You sure, Finch?”

 

_“Quite sure, Miss Shaw.”_ Now _that_ tone sounded like avoidance, even if they both knew Harold refrained from lying.

 

But Shaw wasn't about to call him out on it.

 

She may be bored, but she wasn't _that_ desperate.

 

Besides, it was a hell of a lot more fun to put Finch on edge than to directly confront the matter.

 

“Whatever you say, Finch. Say hi to _John_ for me.” She heard him stiffen through the comm-link and resisted the urge to cackle. Instead, she settled for allowing her smirk to grow.

 

“It’s just not fair that they get to have all the fun while we have to work.” Came an unsurprisingly pouty remark. The vibrations tickled her ear, but she merely looked at her partner in mock irritation.

 

“It would be breaching a _high level_ of decorum to interact with our _colleagues_ in such a fashion in the _middle of a case_ , wouldn't it, Harold?”

 

Shaw had to give him a small amount of credit: he had a damn fast response.

 

“ _Indeed it would, Miss Shaw. I assume this small chatter is only occurring because the case is completed?”_

 

Now it was her turn to be irritated.

 

…

 

“I do not see why it is necessary for Miss Shaw to throw around such accusations about the nature of our relationship and, subsequently, our actions. You only gave me a brief, infinitesimal massage to help with today's unusually intolerable pain.”

 

“An ’infinitesimal massage’ that definitely turned into a lot more, Harold.”

 

“Yes, well, it's not as though we were engaging in anything terribly salacious!”

 

John smiled, chuckling at this defensiveness and letting his eyes run over the cot that they were both currently inhabiting. “Well, we didn't have sex today. But, we’re really not all that far from it, Harold.”

 

The man faintly blushed at that remark. Surprisingly so, considering his earlier actions.

 

“Nevertheless, I should have never allowed you to convince me that this was a good idea. Not only did Miss Shaw almost contact us in the middle of our… engagement, she was quite correct in suggesting this was an inordinately inappropriate and rather unnecessary-- _oh my.”_

 

Considering this was probably the most relaxed the man had been in months, Reese begged to differ with this being “rather unnecessary”.

 

But, still. He knew this was Harold trying to run away from his desires.

 

And, for once, he was rather determined to not let the man escape.

 

“ _Me_ , Harold? I'm pretty sure it was the other way around.” Of course, Harold was currently far too “out of it” to form much of a protest to this statement. This was, of course, because John was demonstrating the fact that his hands could do a lot more than just fire weapons.

 

And, speaking of weapons...

 

“How goes it, Shaw?”

 

A lazy attempt at curiosity sparked a second response.

 

“Shaw?”

 

_Silence._

 

But, as curiosity began to morph into a fourth, suspicious, “Shaw?”, he finally received a response:

 

_“Fine._ ”

 

It was her typical _eloquent_ vernacular, as Harold might have said. But, was it just John’s imagination or did Shaw sound a little… _gruffer_ than normal? Displeased about something, even?

 

“You sure, _Shaw?”_

 

“ _Yeah_.”

 

Another pause.

 

Yeah, there was definitely something going on on her end. But John had a funny suspicion it had nothing to do with today’s Number.

 

“How's Greenwich?” Kelvin Greenwich, the Number of the Day, really had one of the more… tedious jobs in an airport: customers services.

 

_“Greenwich’s been taken care of.”_

 

“Oh? Was he the victim or the perpetrator?” John was now rubbing circles into Harold’s back, relishing the fact that his friend trusted him enough to do this -- especially in such a comatose state.

 

_“Does it matter?”_ Well, no, not really. Not if it took time away from John getting to spend time with Harold in this fashion.

 

But, Harold would want to know. And, since the man was now passed out due to a mixture of ecstasy and exhaustion, it was now John’s responsibility to ask the questions entrenched in high-minded principles.

 

“Yes. It does.” At this, Harold seemed to snuggle further into his arms, causing even more of a smile to grow.

 

_“She was the perpetrator. Fusco took care of her more than an hour ago.”_

 

“How's Root?”

 

“ _I'm doing quite well, John.”_ Now, unlike Shaw, Root was definitely at a loss breath.

 

And decorum.

 

It was also true that her explicit pleasure was _more than_ apparent.

 

And since John definitely did not know want to know what they'd be up to for the last hour, he was content to return to one of his favorite past times: enjoying Harold.

 

“In that case, have a nice day, ladies.”

 

_“You too, John. Say hi to Harry for us!”_

 

Speaking of Harold,

 

“John? Are you there?” The man was stirring in his arms, probably having been awoken by a growing nightmare.

 

Fortunately, they had long since figured out a solution to those particular problems.

 

“Always, Harold.”

 

But, since the man didn't seem to be fully convinced by words alone, John decided to let his body do the talking.

 

After all, they were officially done with the Numbers for today.

 

Now they could do _whatever_ they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, these drabbles and ficlets aren't being published in a chronological fashion. While that was probably obvious, I figured I'd state it as a hint for a future ficlet that's already been composed... ;)


	42. Concerned 3rd Party

“Who the hell are you, man?” Derek Jones, today’s number was clearly on edge.

 

And as much as John liked to give every number time to feel at ease -- at least, feel at ease as much as they could in these kinds of situations -- he was running a little low on patience.

 

That kind of would be the case if you were being shot at.

 

He fired another shot around the corner before handing Derek a business card.

 

“‘Concerned 3rd Party -- if your Number’s up, we’ll find you’? The hell is this?”

 

“Finch, maybe we need to work on the card again.”

 

_"You're quite correct_ , _Mr. Reese. In that case, maybe I should just advertise the library’s location instead. Or, better yet, make it the Machine’s calling card. How does that sound?”_

 

He ignored the snark, looking back to Jones -- who was still freaking out.

 

"Make sure to burn that after we get out of this." The man spluttered incredulously at this. But the vigilante was already in the process of saving the day.

 

Five minutes and six kneecaps later, Jones was safely out of harms way.

 

"Have a nice day. And," He paused, taking the now destroyed card away. "Just in case you forget to burn it."

_..._

 

"So, when you guys say 'Concerned 3rd Party', I'm guessing you're not from the Internet?"

 

...

 

Alexa Peterson stood outside, trembling profusely with a business card still clutched in her hand. 

 

She glanced up at the nearby security camera, not really sure if she was insane or just having a _really_ rough night.

 

"Okay, so this guy who saved me earlier was talking to a security camera and I'm not really sure how this works," She looked down at the card. "But I think my Number's up? And I'm supposed to be found right now? Or something? Maybe?" 

 

No response.

 

"Nothing?"

 

A woman, a coworker she never thought would want her dead, slithered through the shadows. 

 

"Kara, you really don't want to do this!" The perpetrator smirked coldly, smoothly pointing the .45 at her fellow coworker.

 

"Oh, but, Alexa," The smirked widened. "I really think I do."

 

A gunshot rang out at the same time as Alexa's scream. 

 

_Silence_.

 

Root emerged from the the darkness, and plucked the card out of Alexa's shaking hands. She then glanced over at Kara, who was now bleeding out on the pavement.

 

"Sorry about your friend, but it looks like she really wasn't the nicest of people." Understatement of the night. "Don't worry, it wasn't a fatal shot and the police will soon be here."

 

"Who are you?" But, Root wasn't going to be answering any questions tonight.

 

"Thank you for employing our services. Have a nice night and remember to stay safe!"

 

Alexa watched, feeling rather mystified, as Root serenely retreated into the darkness.

 

"You really like to screw around, don't you?" A gruff voice whispered, one that Alexa didn't recognize.

 

"And don't you forget it, sweetie." 

 

_I am not crazy. I am not insane. I did not imagine this._

 

_... Maybe this is all a dream?_

 

...

 

"So when you say 'Numbers'..."

 

"No, I am not interested in a date."

 

...

 

"Officers, I'm not really sure what happened. But there was this guy--"

 

Joss sighed, a thin smile appearing. It was her only attempt to be reassuring.

 

"A man in a suit? Who shot a lot of bad guys in the kneecaps?" Normally, she'd be more eloquent than this.

 

But it'd been a long week.

 

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

 

"Long story. Did he leave a card?" Cue the eyes widening and the mouth gaping in shock.

 

"Yeah." The crumpled card was only taken out of a beaten up pocket before Fusco was able to swoop in and take it.

 

"Evidence. We'll take it from here." Cue the stunned curiosity.

 

"Who was that guy? He seemed to have some sort of a partner? And how did you--"

 

"Trust me, it really is better if you just don't ask questions."


	43. Miles to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It was that sort of sleep in which you wake every hour and think to yourself that you have not been sleeping at all; you can remember dreams that are like reflections, daytime thinking slightly warped.”  - Kim Stanley Robinson,   
>  __  
>  Icehenge  
> 

It was only on a rare occasion that John actually slept in the library. 

 

It was on even rarer occasions that John and Harold  _ both _ slept in the library. 

 

There were no logistical problems with them both being there: there was a spare cot to sleep and a beaten-up couch if the cot was taken.

 

There were no emotional problems: there was no need for their relationship to become compromised because they never had to overstep necessary boundaries -- after all, they didn’t share either the bed or the cot.

 

But, just like with anything in life, there was at least one problem with the set-up.

 

And this time, it was something that not even Harold could have predicted

…

 

“Mr. Reese, it appears we have a new number.”

 

It couldn't have already been the next day because John felt like he had just fallen asleep.

 

But Finch was there and business was calling. 

 

John wearily opened his eyes just as Finch turned around to walk back to his computers. Harold had taken the cot tonight, as wrapping up the last number had taxed them to the point where neither of them wanted to leave the library.

 

So, clearly, they both weren’t at their best tonight.

 

But, if the Numbers were calling, the Numbers were calling. 

 

He yawned before slowly getting up and stretching. Now the only trace of Harold was the echo of his footsteps. 

 

The echo of his footsteps that should have fading away.

 

Not sounding as though they were coming  _ back _ .

 

Harold passed by him, an understandably tired look reflecting in his eyes. Nevertheless, the man headed in an unusual direction: he was heading back to the cot.

 

“Harold?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

 

“We still need to work on that new Number.”

 

“I know that, Mr. Reese.” Harold spoke, in an almost wryly fashion. “I just need to run a personal errand.”

 

And then he proceeded to get back into bed and promptly fall back asleep.

 

“Harold?” 

 

But, Harold was fast asleep -- apparently undeterred by whatever it was that just happened.

 

And, after investigating the library to discover everything seemed to still be turned off, John could only find himself feeling… confused?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses for what’s going on? :)
> 
> I’ll give a hint: This ties into a tiny part of another drabble that’s already been recently posted.
> 
> Hope you’ve enjoyed this little taste of a ficlet (it's Part 1 of 3) and have a nice day!


	44. Coffee. Black. Large.

“Coffee. Black. Large. Put it under Shaw.” The delectable smells of the coffee shop were ignored by Shaw. The soothing atmosphere, meant to reassure people that intelligence and sophistication does still exist in the world, was also ignored by Shaw

 

All she wanted was her damn coffee.

 

“Will that be all?” Eyes flickered up to glare at her barista.

 

But that only made the barista beam even more.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Want any pastries?”

 

“No.”

 

“How about sweets?”

 

“What about a date?”

 

“I said --- _What?”_

 

“That'll be 4 dollars and 23 cents.”

 

Shaw gave the woman a wary look before taking a moment to hand over the appropriate amount of cash.

 

In this moment, she noted the name tag that had “Root” penned in lieu of a more common name. She also noticed that the woman was not only attractive but meticulous in subtle ways -- e.g.: her name-tag was pinned neatly, her hair was pulled back in an unusually professional bun, and her uniform was quite orderly even though it'd probably been a few hours since her shift started.

 

_Does that matter? No, it doesn't. Just focus on the mission, Shaw: getting your coffee._

 

“Have a nice day, Sam!”

 

“... Thank you?”

 

It took Shaw far too much time -- 14 minutes, to be precise -- to realize that Root had merely glanced down at the debit card without her noticing.

 

_… Nobody does that without my noticing. Nobody does_ anything _without my noticing._

 

It was true that Shaw was rarely, if ever, surprised.

 

So, if a barista at a coffee shop was able to it meant one of 2 possibilities:

 

  1. It was time to find a new line of work. 
  2. Or, she's underestimated the cleverness of everyday society.



 

She was more inclined to lean towards the first one, if only for her pride’s sake.

 

…

 

Now, Root rather enjoyed working at The Machine.

 

For starters, it was a down to earth coffee shop, which seemed ironic considering the name. But it was true: it was the kind of place where the wifi password was free, where the drinks were better than Starbucks, and where the baristas knew you only after one order. Furthermore, her boss and his partner liked to make sure everyone got taken care of -- whether that meant getting paid an incredibly nice amount or getting help when they were in trouble.

 

But, she _especially_ liked working at The Machine once Sameen started dropping by.

 

…

 

“Coffee. Black. Large. Shaw.”

 

“So, tell me about yourself, Sam. What do you like to do?” Sameen narrowed her eyes at this, handing the cash over.

 

“I like to drink coffee that is black and in a large cup. And be left alone.” Root merely smiled in what she assumed was a winning fashion.

 

It only made Shaw’s eyes narrow even more.

 

....

 

“Coffee. Black. Large.”

 

“So, are you just not interested in dating, Sam?”

 

…

 

She snappishly held out the cash, without uttering a word.

 

By the sixth order, Root should really know it by now.

 

“Nice to see you, too, Sam!”

...

 

Root smiled, preparing herself for her favorite part of the morning. In about five minutes, Sameen would grumble through that door, ready to silently demand her wake-up call in the form of a large black coffee.

 

Ten minutes later, and Sameen was still a no-show.

 

“Hey lady,” A portly regular waved a hand in front of her. “You alright?”

 

She tried to smile, almost failing to resist the urge to sigh.

 

But she did work in the industry where you always have to smile.

 

“Sorry about that, I got distracted. What would you like to have?”

 

“Your friend didn’t make it yet, did she?” He asked knowingly, unusually content to take his sweet time in line.

 

She looked at him, her smile fading for just a moment.

 

But then a familiar figure snuck into the back of the line, and the radiant smirk lit up once again.

 

“Two shots of espresso, right, Detective?” She asked in a bubbly manner. He glanced back to the back of the line and smiled.

 

“Quite correct, Butter Nutter.” She only smiled at this nickname, knowing that it was just his way of interacting with others.

 

Only twelve more customers to go.

 

“I thought something bad had happened.”

 

“I’m fine. Bad traffic.”

 

But she seemed a little off, even if it had only been because of traffic.

 

So, because of that, Root felt it was completely acceptable to sneak two freshly baked chocolate chip cookies into her order.

 

But only after Sameen left the counter to grab her coffee.

 

…

 

“Coffee. Black. Large. And _only_ one date.”

 

Root looked up from the register, stunned. Five dollars were already waiting to be handed over by a vaguely smirking Sameen.

 

“Keep the change.”


	45. Playing for the Other Side

“So,” She refrained from crossing her arms, settling for a bemused look. “You’re the latest edition to Harold and John’s team?”

“That’s correct.” Caroline Turing, or Root as she now went by, met Zoe Morgan’s cold stare with ease.

“Interesting. John never mentioned any reason why you were suddenly to be trusted.”

“Yes, well.” But that seemed to be it from Root.

They continued to sit in awkward silence. Both were women were, of course, unaffected by this: they were both queens of silence in their own right.

“Just one question,” Root raised an eyebrow, curious.

“How do you go from kidnapping Harold to helping him?”

Root merely smiled.

“It's a long story. And,” she held up a hand, stopping a potential interruption in its track. “Before you threaten me about the consequences for hurting or kidnapping Harold again, please know that John already ran that by me almost a year ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say it's about time Zoe poked her head into this little collection :)
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this little piece, and have a nice day!


	46. Eclipse

  
_“Do you all have your glasses?”_

_“Yeah, Finch, we've got them.”_

“And, no, Finch, they're not scratched or broken. At all.”

“This is so exciting, Mr. Reese!”

“Yeah, Finch. Real exciting.”

“Now, Detectives, the total eclipse won't be for a few more minutes. Remember--”

_“‘Don't look directly at the sun. We know, Harry.”_

“Now the next time this is supposed to happen is--”

_“Glasses, we've been hearing about this for the last week. We know.”_

“Yes, well, _oh_ \--”

“... Finch? You alright?”

“Quite alright, Detective. Mr. Reese was just showing me something. Now, pay attention everyone and make sure to not--”

“‘Not directly look into the sun’. Thanks for the reminder, mom.”

“...”

“Finch, spluttering is _not_ an appropriate response. Especially since the eclipse is starting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Logistically, I believe they'd have to leave New York to get a fantastic view this time around. 
> 
> Nevertheless, I figured I'd save what was supposed to be today’s fic for tomorrow -- in honor the eclipse :)
> 
> And, all the main players -- Shaw, Carter, Root, Fusco, Reese, and Finch -- are all in this one!


	47. A World That is Not Entirely Our Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is harder to reach and thinner, and sleeping is no longer the Drop into the black pit all oblivion until the alarm clock, no, sleep is thin and fitful and full of memories and reminders and the dark is never dark enough. - Doris Lessing

It took John only two more nighttime incidences to confirm that Harold did far more than just walk and talk in his sleep.

 

And the second time it happened, John was surprised by how the whole incident was almost… endearing.

 

Once he had realized Harold would be staying in the library that particular night, he ducked out for a few hours and returned only when he was sure the billionaire would be asleep. This was now becoming a routine after stressful cases that usually resulted in nothing.

 

Sometimes he’d return to only find that Harold was lost to the world. Other times, he’d catch the faintest mumble, but nothing terribly serious.

 

But when John came back tonight, Harold wasn’t in bed. 

 

And he wasn’t at his station.

 

“Mr. Reese?”  _ Busted.  _ Well, he could either feign ignorance and temporarily escape, or he could just get this over with.

 

“Yeah, Finch?” 

 

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” John blinked, turning as Harold walked towards him. 

 

John immediately recognized Harold’s face to be resembling the glazy, half-asleep expression he had on all those weeks ago.

 

“What’s up, Finch?” But Harold turned slightly, staring directly at another space and seemingly listening to something else before turning back to John.

 

“As the detective is trying to say,” At this Harold paused, as though trying to find the appropriate words. “Although today was most certainly not our most dangerous case, Mr. Reese, it did have its moments. And, even though you truly have impeccable timing and fantastic training, you almost got kil-- seriously injured today.”

 

There seemed to be a comment from the invisible peanut gallery that John could only assume was Fusco or Carter. However, whoever was speaking, Harold didn’t let them deter him. He turned back to John. 

 

“Please don’t assume that you have to fight the unknowns alone. I may not be of much use to you in the field, but I truly hope you know you can rely on me-- rely on our team.”

 

John softly smiled at this, having already realized that his friend was not awake and probably would not remember a single thing.

 

“Thank you, Harold.”

 

The man smiled faintly in return, nodding at something the “detective” was saying.

 

“Finch?” John knew better than to wake him up. 

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

 

“I think it's time we went for a walk.”  _ And got you back to bed. _

 

“That'd be delightful, Mr. Reese. Any place in particular?”

 

…

 

The third time it happened it was… not quite as endearing.

 

Harold had not been tucked away in bed or primly curled up on the couch. Nor was he working at his station. He was not near any of John’s stashes of weapons, and he wasn’t anywhere near the shelves.

 

Now, John was beginning to worry.

 

“Harold?” If the billionaire just decided to go back to one of his safe houses after waking up in the middle of the night, John would not be pleased.

 

Still, that would be  _ a lot _ better than the alternative.

 

…

 

Yes, the safe house idea would have been  _ a lot  _ better than reality.

 

...

 

When John discovered Harold sitting hunched over on the curb in the rain, he’d been disconcerted. When he realized the man was also repeatedly whispering --  _ crying _ \-- to himself, the vigilante became far more than just worried.

 

“No, No! Nathan? -- Mr. Reese, we’re running out of time. They’ve found us. We’re running out of time --  _ Not the ferry! We are  _ not  _ taking the ferry! _ ”

 

“Finch,” Nothing. Trembling had turned into shaking but John couldn’t get through to the man. “Finch, we--  _ Harold,”  _ A pause. A stutter in the shakes. _ “ _ We won’t be taking the ferry, Harold.” 

 

_ “We won’t?”  _

 

There was such a plea bleeding into what was normally a composed tone. And John hated it. He hated that Harold felt this petrified. Hated that the man couldn't control his actions. Hated how his friend’s safety -- his friend’s  _ privacy _ \-- was being invaded by his own dreams.

 

This was not the eccentric billionaire that Mr. Reese had developed trust in. This was not the private person that deflected interrogating questions with calm intellect and cautious confidence.

 

This was a terrified friend. 

 

This was someone John wanted to protect.

 

“Mr. Reese?” The trembling came back “John? Are you there?” A hand blindly lunged out and John grabbed it soothingly. And though Harold didn’t wake up at this touch, he did calm down. 

 

And that’s all John could ask for.

 

“ _ Always _ , Harold.”

 

…

 

Upon tucking Harold back into bed after that little episode, John knew exactly what he had to do.

 

...

 

Research would be required. Emotion and concern were good for the inevitable arguments, but research would be needed in order to draw the reclusive billionaire in.

 

The good news? 

 

He did essentially live in the library.

 

The bad news?   
  


So did Finch.

 

“Where are you headed off to, Mr. Reese? Checking up on some of your _ supplies _ ?” The comment was dipped into a disdainful tone, but John merely chuckled as he headed off into the bookshelves. 

 

And, though it took a little while, Harold faintly smiled at this response. While he didn’t care for the weapons now embedded in the library, he did appreciate any moment where his friend could just enjoy himself.

 

It only took Finch two hours to realize he had never received a proper response to his question.

 

….

  
  


“Another late night, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Gotta admit, this isn’t a bad read.” And while he was sure  _ Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?  _ really wasn’t all that bad, it was the book hiding underneath it that was he was interested in.

 

“I confess I didn’t expect you to enjoy the realm of science fiction and technology, Mr. Reese. Especially considering our line of work.”

 

“Yeah, well, people are full of surprises.”  _ And you’re not the only one who can use omit the truth. _

 

Another pause, this one more wary of John’s implications. 

 

But no argument brook.

 

It was a late day and Harold just wanted to retreat into one of the numerous safe houses he owned.

 

“Indeed.” Another pause. “Well, goodnight, Mr. Reese.” He turned around, unsurprised to hear the page turning only half a minute later.

 

“Goodnight, Harold.” The whisper slipped into the air only after he was left alone.

 

It took a little longer for John to feel comfortable switching books.

 

_ Chapter 1: So, You’re Sleeping With a Sleepwalker? _

 

While Finch would flusteredly quibble about the semantics, in this case John was willing to consider their relationship to be a romantic equivalent.

 

Intimate, at the very least.

 

…

 

“You've been spending quite a few nights here, Mr. Reese.”

 

“What can I say, Finch? I'm beginning to appreciate the art of reading.”

 

“... Indeed, Mr. Reese.” 

 

…

 

It was one of those mornings. The breathtakingly easy ones that made the paranoid all the more fearful of what was next.

 

So, when Harold arrived at the library one morning, he wasn’t all that surprised to see his employee already waiting there. He merely felt uneasily confident that he was walking into a much too obvious trap. 

 

“Mr. Reese?” Uneasiness soon grew when he noticed what book John was unabashedly perusing. “We don’t have a new number to work with just yet, Mr. Reese. So, if you don't mind my asking, what exactly are you doing here?”

 

“Finch,”  _ It’s time to stop avoiding this, Harold. _ “What do you know about sleepwalking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part will soon be on its way! Have a nice night!


	48. Feather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely T material, if not M, material. Inspired by a particular scene from the second series o _f Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries._

Shaw didn’t really understand why Root needed feather fans bigger than AR 15s. But, if that’s what she needed Shaw to get her then that’s what she needed Shaw to get her.

 

Why Root had to go undercover at a vintage-inspired _Gentlemen’s Club_ was also something else Shaw didn’t really understand.

 

But, once again, a job’s a job.

 

And, at least it was Root and not her going undercover for this one. While she could probably play the Burlesque role quite well if she tried, she frankly wasn’t interested.

 

...

_“Did you make it to your destination, Miss Shaw?”_

 

“Yeah, Finch.” Sameen was tempted to merely grunt in response, but decided that that would only concern her employer and make him ask more irritating questions about her wellbeing.

 

_“Good.”_

 

She walked up the stairs, passing some of New York’s most influential on the way, strongly resisting the urge to grimace. She never cared for any of these people when she came across them in the news but to see them here only lowered her opinion.

 

But, only another flight or two to go and she would’ve _finally_ made it to Root’s dressing room.

 

Upon arrival, she curtly knocked on the door in lieu of a greeting.

 

“Ah, yes, I’d recognize that knock anywhere. ” Purred a familiar voice from inside. “You can just drop them off inside, Sameen.” But, Shaw knew better than to just walk away. Root was working what Harold considered to be a potentially dangerous case -- more dangerous than normal, that is.

 

Which meant a confirmation of Root not being tied up or held at gunpoint was quite necessary.

 

So, Shaw opened the door and unabashedly poked her head in. Root looked up from her mirror, smiling. “Concerned?”

 

“No.” _Liar._

 

She only smiled more at this before turning back to the mirror. “Feel free to stick around for the show.” She said with a coquettish wink, using the mirror to meet Shaw’s gaze.

 

Shaw only had to raise an eyebrow to illustrate how unimpressed she was with this whole set-up before heading out.

 

…

 

Well, a free show was free entertainment and she was unfortunately bored.

 

…

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, all the way from the _Folies Bergère,_ Miss Roesia.”

 

A very sensuous, almost seductive music slithered into the room. Shaw stiffened as she saw those same ruby red fans -- fans she had held only thirty minutes beforehand-- float out in front of milky white legs.

 

The problem is, there didn’t seem to be anything else _covering_ said milky white legs.

 

She heard stray catcalls start as a sultry, jazzy tone entered the fray from the brass section. She could see a familiar, flirtatious face appear from the fans. And she could only watch as the fans swayed, seemingly of their own accord. Temptation clouded her brain, and Sameen could only focus on breathing -- anything else was too much a risk.

 

Fortunately, a quick scan of the crowd showed that there was only lusty attention and no potential threats.

 

But then Root stepped forward. And ruby red fans smoothly rocked ever so tantalizingly in the breeze as she stole all the air in the room.

 

When Root finally graced the floor to move to a far more _promiscuous_ position, Shaw could only blink. The stage lights would make it impossible for Root to see her, but it was though the dancing woman knew exactly where Shaw was.

 

And when she rose to let the fans swing around her backside, caressing it with deletable tenderness, Sameen almost felt pulled forward towards the stage.

 

_Okay, so she’s not totally naked._ With her back to the audience, Root was revealing a rather tantalizing feather skirt that left incredibly little to the imagination.

 

Root slowly, seductively twirled around, now facing the front. Covering up her chest area, all the while insinuating the show wasn’t quite over just yet.

 

_“Miss Shaw, is everything--”_ Finch would have to wait.

 

Because fans were finally reaching out to stroke the sky. Pearl white arms had decided to reveal the last part of the show in its full glory.

 

“Everything's fine, Finch.” The show ended, and another wink was sent in Shaw’s direction. “I just want to do a little investigation of the place before leaving.”

 

And if said investigation was mainly focused in Root’s dressing room, then so be it.

 


	49. An Error in Judgment

Day 1 of officially working for Team Machine and I am already on my way to major colossal failure.

 

The first number, Samantha Johnson, was definitely _not_ the victim.

 

Unfortunately, it had taken me almost getting poisoned to death to fully catch onto that little fact.

 

Now, Finchy’s cut me loose for the day. And, trust me, I _know_ that's not good news.

 

So, now, it's time for me to try to redeem myself. Because there's absolutely no way I'm letting my screw-up set the tone for my track record.

 

But, you see, there's kind of a problem.

 

See, after the whole “almost got poisoned by a sexy as hell lady” moment and after the whole “Mr. Tao, perhaps it would be best for you to call it a day and let Mr. Reese handle the other Number.”, I decided the best way to handle today’s “success” -- and to pump myself up for the necessary redemption… was to get drunk.

 

And, no, not that cute “I’ve taken sips to get that nice buzz but I’m totally in control.” drunk.

 

I think I got myself completely _wasted._

 

Which leads us to this particular moment in time.

 

“How you doing, sexy lady?” Not the smoothest, but it sometimes got the job done.

 

Judging from the unimpressed silence, I’m guessing Hot Stuff over here isn’t really all that impressed.

 

Alright, so maybe that particular line never worked. Your point?

 

Okay, so ignoring that little slip up, I can’t help but see she’s absolutely quiet. And it’s the weird, awkward quiet. Like, either the “I'm a secret assassin who's about to murder you” quiet or “I'm so freaked out by your awesomeness I'm shutting down” quiet.

 

And, really, my luck can't be _that_ bad that it's the first one.

 

“Hey,” Still nothing. “Are you okay?”

 

“I'm fine.”

 

“Okay,” Well, if she's going to say she's okay, then she's probably okay. “Do you have a boyfriend?” She gave me an arched look, definitely thinking something.

 

“My _girlfriend_ will actually be here in a moment.”

 

Okay. So, my apparently luck _is_ that bad.

 

“Oh, I-- I didn't realize!”

 

“I’d be surprised if you did.”

 

“Hey-- did you say something?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you sure?” I think, by this point, she could’ve been giving me super sexy smoldering eyes. Or, it could’ve been a death glare.

 

But I’m going with sexy smoldering eyes.

 

“So, where’s your girlfriend?”

 

…

 

“Oh dear.”

 

“What's up, Finch?”

 

“It seems Mr. Tao has run into Miss Shaw. And she is _not_ in the most cordial of moods.”

 

“Is Root there?”

 

“Unfortunately, Miss Groves doesn't seem to anywhere in the vicinity just yet.”

 

…

 

Well, actually, the reality is that Harold was -- for once -- wrong.

 

Root had arrived only a few minutes after Leon stumbled into Shaw.

 

_However,_ she wasn’t really all that interested in breaking up the party just yet.

 

After all, what would you do if you saw Shaw about to lose her temper on someone who probably deserved it?

 

Would you want to get in the way of that explosion?

 

Or would you want to wait in the shadows and enjoy the free show that is Shaw’s wrath?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this little AU. Have a nice day!


	50. To Sleep, Perchance to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The best bridge between despair and hope is a good night’s sleep.” - E. Joseph Cossman

It may have not been what Harold deemed to be an appropriate topic to converse with his employee about, but he could understand John’s concern.

 

Honestly, his little night issue had stopped bothering him for many years now. Other than the occasional moment where he’d wake up knowing that something had happened in his sleep, he was content to let it be.

 

But John certainly wasn’t.

 

…

 

“Mr. Reese, unless you have a suggestion or idea, I would advise you to let go of the matter and focus your attentions on something not so trivial as my sleep patterns.”

 

When the silence finally settled in the library, he felt an ounce of triumph. It was childish, yes, but Harold rather enjoyed the occasions when John let him take control of a situation.

 

And though the concern was almost endearing, it certainly wasn't neces--

 

“I actually do have a suggestion, Finch.”

 

_Why am I_ not _surprised?_

 

..

 

The books were gently placed on the table one at a time.

 

“So, this is what you've been doing in the library.”

 

John’s silence wasn’t necessarily omission, but it certainly wasn’t denial.

 

…

 

_“That’s_ what your research points to?”

 

“I’m sorry, Finch,” _Well, you certainly don’t look it_. “But that’s one of the ones that actually seem to work. Unless you'd like to try some untested drugs or donate your time to a university? Melatonin tablets, after all, can only do so much until you're used to them.”

 

“Yes, well, I’m sure this isn’t really any of your concern.” A hand politely reached out to close the book, rather inclined to shut the current chapter.

 

_“Harold.”_ A stronger hand stopped it in its tracks.

 

There would be none of that today.

 

…

 

“I understand that there many reasons _not_ to do this, Finch. But I can't have you losing effectiveness when a potential solution is just waiting to be used.”

 

It had been the third time John had caught Harold asleep at the keyboard.

 

It had unfortunately taken John that long to realize that the sleepwalking usually brought him there.

 

Now, why didn't Harold just go back to bed like so many other times?

 

Nightmares.

 

Terrifying nightmares that laughed at his incapability to properly move, forced him to slam into pain of all types, and caused immense bewilderment upon waking up because he couldn't remember a single damn thing.

 

So, no. John was _not_ going to let Harold’s paranoia stop him from taking care of himself.

 

...

 

“Mr. Reese, I am not a child. If you’re truly concerned, I’m sure there is another solution.” But Harold’s previous solutions, before he accepted this vexing reality, hardly ever helped.

 

And, with the research Mr. Reese presented -- since when did Mr. Reese research? -- his solution was worth a shot.

 

Unfortunately, said solution was highly inappropriate and rather liable to end their partnership.

 

…

 

“Relax, Finch. If this doesn’t help, we can forget the whole thing.” Not very likely to occur, but after the dreamlike hell he was experiencing more often than he’d like -- the Numbers had been pouring in at an unusually unhealthy rate as of late, wreaking havoc on his system -- Harold finally allowed John to test his solution to the “little nighttime problem”.

 

They were now both situated in the bed in the library. Fully dressed in pajamas, with more than a wall of space between them, and Harold still felt inordinately indecorous.

 

It probably wouldn’t even work. After all, what guarantee did they have--

 

“Finch. You’re overthinking. _Relax._ ”

 

He spared a glance at his employee -- friend?-- but remained mostly fixed to blankly stare at the ceiling.

 

“Whatever you say, Mr. Reese.” _Relaxation will never come, I’ll have you know_.

 

But, surprisingly, it did.

 

A comforting, intimate feeling eventually sank into the air. It caressed Harold’s lungs into a calming rhythm, even as his brain demanded to be wary and fully alert.

 

“Harold. Relax. _Please_.” A pause seeped into the air as hesitancy draped itself over the bed. Trust begged to peek out from under the covers, and intimacy held itself just inches above the men.

 

“If you insist,” Another stutter of silence. “ _John_.”

 

And so he eventually did.

 

..

 

John patiently waited as his friend slowly began to succumb to sleep, content to have another sleepless night in order to see if this at all helped.

 

…

 

Now, Harold knew sleep would eventually come.

 

The real question is if _rest_ would follow in its footsteps.

 

…

 

They both woke up around the same time feeling strangely refreshed, undoubtedly for the first time in _years_.

 

And, if either of them noticed the immense lack of space between them, it was certainly not pointed out.

 

…

 

“Mr. Reese,” It had been weeks since that first attempt. “I suspect I will be unable to attain any sleep tonight.”

 

John looked up Harold, a questioning look settling onto his face.

 

Harold sighed at this puzzlement, quite honestly confused about the matter -- and his emotional state regarding the matter -- himself.

 

“It seems that I may require your assistance again.” John’s head tilted ever so slightly, bewilderment now staring out from his eyes. “If you would be so kind, that is?”

 

…

 

It was now more of a regular occurrence for Harold to willingly sleep in the library.

 

It was on even more frequent occasions to John and Harold sleep  _together_ in the library.

 

There were no logistical problems with them sleeping together: the spare cot definitely had enough space and the beaten-up couch was more than tolerable if the cot was unavailable.

 

There were no emotional problems: after some lengthy discussions, it became apparent that they were content to trust each other in such an intimate space.

 

But, just like with anything in life, there was a problem with the set-up.

 

Something that not even Harold could have predicted

 

…

 

“Maybe we should move this to one of your places, Finch. My own apartment _does_ have a strict policy.”

 

“As usual, Mr. Reese, you have impeccable intuition.”

 

“‘As usual,’ Finch?” A smirk.

 

“Apart from the moments when you seemed to have reverted back to the mindset of a _toddler_ , your reasoning can occasionally be considered sound -- if not unorthodox.”

 

“Really, Harold, I think heard a compliment in that.”

 

“Don't be absurd, Mr. Reese.”

 

...

 

There really hadn't been any issue of space when it came to this arrangement.

 

That is, until a certain Belgian Malinois started to hop onto the bed and curl up beside them. After being given permission, of course.

 

And when Miss Shaw shoved her way into the picture, well, it had become quite necessary to continue this potential solution elsewhere.

 

But, why still consider it to be only a potential solution?

 

After all, there were clear benefits and currently no real negative effects -- other than the occasional blanket hogging and mishap that would occur when cold feet would graze toasty ones, this arrangement worked out.

 

So, why only see it as a potential?

 

Well, the fact is, science itself is never fully concludable. Thousands of tests need to occur before proper agreements can be made. Experiments could go on for years, if not decades, to ensure valid and concludable results.

 

Harold told John so himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that we’ve made it to fifty? :) We’re halfway there, everyone!
> 
> Now, as an occasional sleep walker and frequent talker, I can safely say that I’ve apparently gone through similar experiences as described in this little set of drabbles. And, I can also say that sleeping with someone else next to you really does help.
> 
> And, one last note before I bid you adieu for today:
> 
> I’d really like to dedicate oneshots #70-79 to you all. So, let me know if there's any canon scene, prompt, character, pairing, or scenario you'd like to see :)
> 
> And, yes, I'm definitely putting your request in that set of oneshots, Lisagarland! :D


	51. Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tread carefully here. It’s mostly crack, but there is angst and other things. Shuffle can be quite a cruel and fascinating mistress at times.

**6\. Chanukah, Chanukah -- Fusco**

 

_“Chanukah, Chanukah, Happy time of year!”_

 

Fusco was in shock.

 

Absolute shock. 

 

_“Chanukah, Chanukah, presents and good cheer!”_

 

That had to be the only reason the card wasn't shut within seconds of opening it.

 

_“Chanukah, Chanukah, presents and good fun!”_

 

The card insistently blasted that annoyingly catchy tune throughout the precinct, much to his mortification.

 

And who did he owe this mortification to?

 

A certain jackass in a suit.

 

_“Candles burn, dreidel turn, freedom has been won!_

 

Said jackass was going to be dead meat the next time Fusco saw him.

 

And when Fusco turned to see Carter busting up in the background and recording the whole damn thing… he seriously considered the ramifications of  _accidentally_ giving away Reese’s identity as the man in the suit.

 

Even though he knew that was going too far, it didn’t make it any less appealing.

 

_“Freedom has been woooooonnnnnnnn!”_

 

He wouldn't hear the end of this for weeks, if not months.

 

_… I’m not even Jewish!_

 

**5\. Lady Madonna -- The Beatles -- Carter**

 

She really was underappreciated.

 

_Severely. Underappreciated._

 

“Moommm! Do I have to go to school today?”

 

_“Lady Madonna,_

_Children at your feet._

_Wonder how you manage to make ends meet!”_

 

“No, Taylor, you can’t stay home and get out of your geometry test.” She knew he was normally a sweet, well-mannered kid who went out of his way to help her.

 

“But, mom, when am I ever going to  _need_ geometry?”

 

And then there were days like these.

 

_“Who finds the money,_

_When you pay the rent?_

_Did you think that money was heaven sent?”_

 

“Detective, would you be so kind as to--”

 

“Little busy, Finch.” And with that she hung up, knowing that he could wait.

 

As much as she appreciated Finch’s desire to fight crime, she was irritated with the many occasions that desire got in the way of her official job.

 

_“Friday night arrives without a suitcase,_

_Sunday morning creeping like a nun,_

_Monday’s child has learned to tie his shoelace,”_

 

Even her Saturdays, the one day she’d clutched to her chest and held onto as her _one_ day off for years, were being snatched.

 

_“See how they run?”_

 

She would never allow her head to wearily collide with her desk. Not in the precinct, not at home, and certainly not in front of John.

 

_“Lady Madonna,_

_Baby at your breast,_

_Wonder how you manage to feed the rest?”_

 

She could only thank God that Taylor was an only child.

 

Though, with how Fusco, Finch, and John acted at times… Joss wasn’t entirely sure that Taylor was the only child she dealt with.

 

_“Lady Madonna,_

_Lying on the bed._

_Listen to the music playing in your head.”_

 

It was the rare moments that Carter enjoyed the most: the ones that were quiet and peaceful and did not require her to save the world.

 

_“Tuesday afternoon is never ending._

_Wednesday’s morning papers didn’t come._

_Thursday night your stockings needed mending.”_

 

Errand after errand.

 

Job after job.

 

No rest, no congratulations, and no thanks.

 

_“See how they run?”_

 

“Detective, I need you to check something for me.”

 

“One moment, _John_ .” She would not get irritated with John’s inability to do his own job. She would _not_ get irritated with John’s inability to do his own job.

 

_“Lady Madonna,_

_Children at your feet._

_Wonder how you manage to make ends meet?”_

 

It would be a wonder if Joss could actually get through a week without wanting to strangle someone.

 

**4\. Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) -- Nancy Sinatra -- Shaw**

 

_“I was five and he was six_

_We rode on horses made of sticks”_

 

She didn’t really care much for her childhood.

 

_He wore black and I wore white_

_He would always win the fight”_

 

The car crash had been interesting and memorable, but not worthwhile.

 

Other moments, like the fire, the neglect, the roundabout. They probably should have been more memorable than they were.

 

_“Bang bang, he shot me down_

_Bang bang, I hit the ground_

_Bang bang, that awful sound_

_Bang bang, my baby shot me down.”_

  

But Sameen didn’t really care much for her childhood.

 

_“Seasons came and changed the time_

_When I grew up, I called him mine._

_He would always laugh and say_

_Remember when we used to play?_

 

Now, adulthood. Adulthood wasn’t quite a bucket of sunshine and popsicles.

 

But it was certainly interesting.

 

_“Bang bang, I shot you down_

_Bang bang, you hit the ground_

_Bang bang, that awful sound_

_Bang bang, I used to shoot you down.”_

 

And then a brunette waltz through her not so worthwhile life.

 

_Music played, and people sang_

_Just for me, the church bells rang._

 

A brunette who was insane enough to believe life could be more than “not so worthwhile”.

 

_“Now he's gone, I don't know why_

_And 'til this day, sometimes I cry_

_He didn't even say goodbye_

_He didn't take the time to lie.”_

 

But, now…

 

_Bang bang, he shot me down_

_Bang bang, I hit the ground_

_Bang bang, that awful sound_

_Bang bang, my baby shot me down..._

 

**3\. If I Can Learn to Do (You Can Learn to Do It) -- Anastasia -- Root**

 

They were standing in the middle of the Library. She took the center stage, right next to Finch and Shaw. Reese was hanging back, content to observe from a distance.

 

“Miss Groves, if you are going to convince anyone about this, you need to work on your character.”

 

“ _I_ need to work on developing character, Harry?” He glowered at this, ignoring Shaw and Reese’s combined snickering, choosing to continue on instead.

 

“ _You were born in a palace by the sea.”_ She raised an eyebrow at this, crossing her arms a little.

 

_“A palace by the sea? Could it be?”_

 

_“Yes, that’s right!"_  He seemed immensely grateful she was willing to play along. _"You rode horseback when you were only three,”_

 

_“Horseback riding, me?”_ Disbelief fluttered into the room, but she was indeed willing to play along.

 

“ _And the horse,”_ Harold glanced at Shaw, gesturing for her to help him out. She shrugged.

 

_“He was white.”_ John refrained from busting up into laughter as even Shaw killed the tune by managing to sing in a monotone. But, Harold was not deterred in the slightest.

 

_“You made faces that terrorized the cook!”_

 

_“_ You _threw him in the brook_.” Now the monotone had a bit of color to it, and John suddenly wished he could have recorded this from the start.

 

“ _Was I wild?”_

 

“Hell yeah. You _wrote the book.”_

 

_“But you behaved when your father gave that look.”_

 

_“Imagine how it was--”_ Wait a minute.

 

_“Your long forgotten past!”_ Everyone was beginning to take this seriously.

 

_“We’ve got a lot to teach you and the time is going fast!”_ Soft smirks and a playful manner danced in everyone except for John. He was still definitely content to stay out of this, still confused on why and how this was turning into a real song.

 

And, much to his surprise -- and horror? -- he even could detect faint traces of an imaginary orchestra echoing throughout the station.

 

_What the hell?_

 

“Alright, I’m ready!”

 

“Now, _shoulders back and stand up tall!”_ Professor Wren was making a comeback, much to their amusement. A book was soon placed gently on her head by Reese while Shaw straightened out Root’s shoulders.

 

_“And, do not walk but try to float!”_ A giggle escaped at this as Root tried to mimic Shaw’s unusual exaggeration.

 

_“I feel a little foolish, am I floating?”_ Harold turned around, smiling at her adorable attempt.

 

_“Like a little boat.”_

 

_“You give a bow,”_

 

_“What happens now?”_ A hand gently snaked around to guide her arm at this.

 

_“Your hand receives a kiss!”_ She beamed.

 

_“Most of all, remember this:”_ He took the book back, placing it on his own head and walking forward with masterful balance.

 

_“If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it!”_

 

_“Something in you knows it,”_ The book came back to the top of Root’s head, this time placed by Sameen.

 

_“There’s nothing to it!”_

 

_“Follow in my footsteps, shoe by shoe!”_

 

_“You can learn to do it, too!”_

 

____.____

_  
_ _“Now, elbows in and sit up straight!”_ They had brought food into the station. And Harold, on a whim, ordered Eastern European.

 

_“And never slurp the stroganoff,”_ Shaw was back in her element, pleased to be the one who was bossing around Root.

 

_“I’ve never cared for stroganoff!”_

 

“She said that like a Romanov,” Harold confessed to John, a small smile dancing on his lips.

 

_“The Samovar,”_

 

_“The Caviar!”_ Which Shaw proceeded to help herself to.

 

_“Dessert and then goodnight?”_ Even for someone who was willing to hop around disguises, all of this was wearing Root down. Which pushed all three of her colleagues to forcefully respond with, _“Not until you get this right!”_

 

___.___

 

_“If I could learn to do it,”_

 

_“If he could learn to do it,”_ John added in wryly, earning a snicker from the other two.

 

_“You could learn to do it!”_

 

__“You could learn to do it!”_ _

 

_“Pull yourself together, and you’ll pull through it!”_

 

_“Tell yourself it’s easy,”_ Something she had been doing for the last few days while the others had been doing reconnaissance in preparation for the event.

 

_“And it’s true!”_ Because, truly, Root had been improving remarkably over this time.

 

_“You could learn to do it, too.”_

 

___.___

 

_"Next, you must memorize the names of the royalty,"_ Root groaned a little, but leaned into the computer screen to study it closer.  _"Now here we have Kropotkin,"_

 

_"Shot Potemkin."_ Shaw supplied, mirroring the action with ease.

 

_"In the Botkin."_

 

_"And dear old uncle Vanya loved his vodka,"_

 

_"Got it, Anya?"_ John chimed in, resisting the urge to chuckle when Root responded in the negative.

 

_"The Baron Pushkin,"_ Harold turned back to her, having memorized the page on the computer and content to quiz her non-stop.

 

_"He was...?"_

 

_"Short!"_

 

_"Count Anatoly?"_

 

_"Had a...?"_

 

_"Wart!"_ Now they were just playing the verbal version of monkey in the middle. And Root was, of course, the monkey in this case.

 

_"Count Sergei?"_

 

_"Wore a feathered hat!"_

 

_"I heard he's gotten very fat!"_ But she was determined to finally surprise them.

 

_"And I recall his yellow cat!"_ Everyone halted at this, not knowing how exactly Root knew that. Harold even glanced back at the screen to double check this information.

 

_"... I don't believe we told her that."_

 

___.___

 

_“If you could learn to do it, I could learn to do it.”_ After all, her posture had become far more elegantly poised and straightened out over the last few days.

 

_"Don't know how you knew it,"_ She smiled at this, spinning around the room in wonderment.

 

_"I simply knew it!"_ She grabbed Shaw, whirling the other woman into an impromptu waltz.  _"Suddenly I feel like someone new."_

 

 

It truly was quite impressive how quickly she was able to adapt to her new cover.

 

"Miss Groves,  _you're a dream come true!"_ She smiled, pausing the dance to curtsey to his compliment. "Well, you know what they say,"

 

"No, what do they say?" John deadpanned, though he was immediately ignored.

 

_"If I can learn to do it!"_

 

_"You can learn to do it!"_

_"Pull yourself together,"_ Shaw twirled her once more before Finch handed Root her coat. _"And you'll pull through it!"  
_

 

It was time to put her training to the test.

 

_"Tell yourself it's easy,"_ John headed ahead of the trio, content to get the door.  _"And it's true!"_

 

_"You can learn to do it,"  
_

 

_"Nothing to do it!"_ She grinned, curtseying once more for kicks. 

 

_"You can learn to do it, too!"_

 

**2\. Cheerleader (Felix Jaehn Remix) -- OMI -- Reese**

 

He prowled the streets, ready to be the avenging vigilante New York needed him to be.

 

There was no hesitation in his step as he coolly did his job.

 

But, that confidence only grew when there was a certain someone guiding him through the shadows.

 

_"When I need motivation_

_My one solution is my queen_

_'Cause she stay strong (yeah yeah)"_

 

Harold’s voice was always one that John could turn to. 

 

Jessica's had faded after time, Carter's occasionally came back.

 

But Harold's had always stayed.

 

_"She is always in my corner_

_Right there when I want her_

_All these other girls are tempting_

_But I'm empty when you're gone"_

 

The CIA, the Military, even other vigilantes have tried to gain his loyalty over the decades of his life.

 

After all, there was always work in the shadows. And that is where he had been conditioned to work.

 

_"And they say_

_Do you need me?_

_Do you think I'm pretty?_

_Do I make you feel like cheating?_

_And I'm like no, not really cause,"_

 

The problem is simple: they all don’t really give that loyalty back.

 

But Harold does.

 

_"Oh I think that I found myself a cheerleader_

_She is always right there when I need her_

_Oh I think that I found myself a cheerleader_

_She is always right there when I need her"_

 

Finch spoke with kind gestures, gave him the respect of privacy -- as much as he could -- and never lied. His cheers came in the form of whispers about his past, his encouragement materialized in his faint smiles.

 

Harold didn’t care for platitudes or trying to make life seemed nicer than it was.

 

He just focused on making the world a better place. Giving people second chances.

 

_"She walks like a model_

_She grants my wishes like a genie in a bottle (Yeah yeah)"_

 

John never had to, nor ever cared to, ask Finch for money. He didn’t need an airy apartment, he didn’t have to own the most expensive suits on the block.

 

But Harold wanted to. And, so, John accepted.

 

_"Cause I'm the wizard of love_

_And I got the magic wand_

_All these other girls are tempting_

_But I'm empty when you're gone"_

 

“You there, Finch?” It was the middle of the night. There was no reason to call, no reason for either of them to be awake.

 

“Always, Mr. Reese.”

 

_"And they say_

_Do you need me?_

_Do you think I'm pretty?_

_Do I make you feel like cheating?"_

 

“It’s time to come home, John. Slate’s been wiped clean.”

 

_That’s not home. That never was home and that will_ never _be home._

 

“You know that will never happen.”

 

_"And I'm like no, not really cause_

_Oh I think that I found myself a cheerleader_

_She is always right there when I need her_

_Oh I think that I found myself a cheerleader_

_She is always right there when I need her"_

 

Whether it was over Eggs Benedict or a bomb vest, he would gladly spend any moment with Harold.

 

_"She gives me love and affection_

_Baby did I mention, you're the only girl for me_

_No I don't need a next one_

_Mama loves you too, she thinks I made the right selection_

_Now all that's left to do_

_Is just for me to pop the question."_

 

Eventually, it’d be a different kind of partnership.

 

It already was, in its own way.

 

John only had to make it official.

 

_"Oh, I think that I found myself a cheerleader_

_She is always right there when I need her_

_Oh, I think that I found myself a cheerleader_

_She is always right there when I need her."_

 

**1\. War -- Edwin Starr -- Harold Finch**

 

“You really don't care for violence, do you, Finch?”

 

_War, huh, yeah_

_What is it good for?_

_Absolutely nothing_

_War, huh, yeah_

_What is it good for?_

_Absolutely nothing_

 

He stiffened almost imperceptibly at this, feeling distinctly ruffled.

 

_Say it again, y'all_

_War, huh, good god_

_What is it good for?_

_Absolutely nothing, listen to me_

 

He didn't care for any of that -- the weapons, the violence, the accidental deaths and the deaths they didn't want to prevent.

 

_Oh, war, I despise_

_'Cause it means destruction of innocent lives_

_War means tears to thousands of mothers eyes_

_When their sons go to fight_

_And lose their lives_

 

Harold understood the price of saving the day.

 

Didn't mean he always liked the cost.

 

_I said, war, huh good god, y'all_

_What is it good for_

_Absolutely nothing say it again_

_War, whoa, lord_

_What is it good for_

_Absolutely nothing, listen to me_

 

The loss of life, whether in this vigilante fight or in the battlefields that were scattered throughout the world, was never worth the “victory” of battle.

 

_it ain't nothing but a heartbreaker_

_(War) friend only to the undertaker_

_Oh, war it's an enemy to all mankind_

 

Personally, he still believed in playing by the rules that violence could be a last resort. He preferred exchanging words over blows, dueling with thoughts instead of knives.

 

_The point of war blows my mind_

_War has caused unrest_

_Within the younger generation_

_Induction then destruction_

_Who wants to die?_

 

Memories, of course, swept into the room at the sound of gunshots and explosions. The numbers that bear any resemblance to any old friends --few as they were -- bring a silent sigh of regret because war didn’t let anyone escape.

 

And further sighs slip through the cracks of indifference. Because he occasionally came across the path of those who _thrived_ to provoke any form of war.

  
_Ah, war-huh, good god y'all_

_What is it good for?_

_Absolutely nothing_

_Say it, say it, say it_

_War, huh_

_What is it good for?_

_Absolutely nothing, listen to me_

 

Mr. Reese was a product of war.

 

This Harold knows well, and it is this that he is reminded of every time John has to resort to violence.

 

_Oh, war, has shattered many a young mans dreams_

_Made him disabled, bitter and mean_

 

And while Harold can’t credit himself as the only reason John lives today, he can certainly admit that John had been on a incredibly dark path mostly because of loss, and grief, and trauma.

 

In essence, the spoils of war.

 

_Life is much too short and precious_

_To spend fighting wars these days_

_War can't give life_

_It can only take it away_

 

That was one of the consolations of working with the Numbers: It stopped innocent people from going further into paths that walk alongside war.

 

_Oh, war, huh good god y'all_

_What is it good for?_

_Absolutely nothing say it again_

_whoa, lord_

_What is it good for?_

_Absolutely nothing listen to me_

 

Furthermore, unlike war, Harold’s instructions were always to shed as little violence as possible.

 

Unlike the people who got to Nathan.

 

_It ain't nothing but a heartbreaker_

_(War) friend only to the undertaker_

 

Oh, yes, he considered the ferry incident to be an effect of war. The Machine’s creation was also most certainly a product of war -- whether one the government sparked themselves, or one brought on by another country.

 

_Peace, love and understanding_

_Tell me, is there no place for them today_

_They say we must fight to keep our freedom_

_But lord knows there's got to be a better way_

 

The Machine had been his way to try to go around violence. To stop people before it came to them killing one another.

 

_Oh, war, huh good god y'all_

_What is it good for you tell me?_

_Say it, say it, say it, say it_

_huh good god y'all_

_What is it good for?_

_Stand up and shout it_

_Nothing._

 

“Quite correct, Mr. Reese. I have never cared and will never care for violence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this one, and have a nice day!


	52. Space, the Fandom Frontier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I proudly deliver something that definitely delves into crack.

“Now, Finch, are you sure you can handle--”

 

“Mr. Reese,” He tugged on his uniform, irritated by the unnecessary concern. “I assure you that I have a little knowledge about this world.”

 

In fact, this _was_ one of the few television franchises Harold allowed himself to become immersed in over the years.

 

“Dif-tor heh smusma!” A fellow Trekkie eagerly greeted him, and he returned the Vulcan salute with ease.

 

“Peace and long life.”

 

_“What did he just say, Finch?”_

 

But, now was not the time to engage in conversation with Mr. Reese. Now was the time to properly for Harold to start their case.

 

Now, why Harold and not John?

 

Well, although John was capable of going into almost any kind of field it was clear that Harold would have to be the one to get close to the Number this time.

 

After all, when Mr. Reese confessed to not really knowing the difference between _Star Wars_ and _Star Trek_ , it was clear that the vigilante would never blend in at this particular convention.

 

Harold turned, spotting the familiarly ornate red and black robes from a distance. Even with all the other vibrant colors and exquisite pieces swarming around, such an elaborate costume would be hard to missed.

 

Harold stepped forward, softly smiling at all of the variety. As much as he enjoyed the tributes to the Original Series and the Next Generation, it was rather refreshing to see characters from Voyager, Deep Space, and Enterprise. Furthermore, he always felt delight when it came to capturing the various conversations.

 

“But you have to admit that _Resolutions_ did the opposite of what they wanted and became a fantastic reason as to why Chakotay and Janeway _should_ be together.”

 

“Mom, hurry up or we'll miss the panel!”

 

“I know Spock’s awesome, but I really like Data.”

 

“It was _so_ interesting when they brought up the fact _Star Trek_ rarely -- if ever -- looks into the fact that aliens that don't clearly resemble humans. Take Odo, for example,”

 

“So, what's your opinion on the new movies?”

 

“Damnit, Jim, I'm a doctor _not_ a model!”

 

Nevertheless, Harold couldn't admire the diversity all day. After all, their Number was now only a few feet away from him now.

 

Fortunately, this was a type of human interaction he felt he didn't abysmally fail at.

 

“So, I take it you’re a fan of Q?” He wryly spoke, watching today’s Number elegantly spin around.

 

“Of course,” Joanna Kelley smirked. “And yourself?”

 

“I’ve always had mixed feelings about any form of omnipotence” He confessed, ignoring the chuckle that suddenly erupted in his ear.

 

“Now, the real question is, of course, if you're more of a fan of Picard or Kirk.” His smile widened at this remark, eager to debate this particular subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though he was clearly busy messing around with technology and helping his dad, I can totally see Harold watching Star Trek on the side. Maybe not as passionately as the most hardcore of fans, but definitely watching the franchise as it evolves. 
> 
> Now, for those of you who have delved into Star Trek, can you name all the references? :)
> 
> Either way, have a nice day!


	53. Cracked Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a Dark!Team Machine isn’t your cup of tea, definitely feel free to skip today’s menu.

_You are being watched. The government has a secret system -- a machine that spies on you every hour of every day._

 

_I know because... I built it._

 

_I designed the Machine to detect acts of terror, but it sees everything... violent crimes involving ordinary people,_

 

_People like you,_

 

_The government considers these people irrelevant._

 

**_So do we._ **

 

**_Hunting alongside the authorities, we work in secret._ **

 

**_You will never find us_ **

 

**_But, victim or perpetrator,_ **

 

**_If your Number’s up…_ **

 

**_We will_ ** **exploit** **_you._ **

 

…

 

“Help! Please, help me!”

 

“Are you alright, ma'am?”

 

“No, I'm not! That woman just shot someone and she's getting away, Officer!”

 

“Okay. Did you want me to take care of that for you, ma'am?”

 

_“Obviously!_ I mean--” Joss Carter loudly yawned, disinterestedly glancing up from her phone at the woman. She shot a second glance over at the running perp.

 

“Hey, you. Stop!” It was more like a stage whisper than anything and it did absolutely nothing. “You happy?”

 

“But--”

 

“Something wrong, partner?” The witness sighed in relief, realizing there was another cop nearby.

 

“Yes, there is! Officer--”

 

“Yeah, Fusco. This woman here is unable to do anything herself and thought she'd spend her day by wasting _my_ precious time.” Fusco shook his head at this in disbelief.

 

“What woman? All I see is a--” Before he could finish his sentence, the witness had left them in a flustered mess.

 

Joss could see it now: that witness would probably soon be crying somewhere about “the indecency of the police” and about how “corrupted” they all were.  And did Joss care?

 

Not one damn bit.

…

 

He discreetly walked out of the building, eyes subtly peeled for any sign of trouble as he approached his car.

 

And, even with this alertness, he still screwed up majorly.

 

The man smacked into the concrete hard, reeling in the pain of a shot knee cap.

 

“Hersch. I can't believe you didn't see that coming.” A sneer found its way easily onto Shaw’s face as she coldly walked over to her target.

 

“Really,” She sardonically began to shoot out a reprimand, kneeling next to the man. “It was almost as though you wanted to get shot. Is that what you want?”

 

The gun proudly showed itself again as she sharply slammed it into his side.

 

“Is that what you _wish_ for?”

 

He couldn't help but let out a pained gasp at this, unwillingly allowing the dripping blood to greet the floor like an old friend.

 

“You're getting old, Hersch. Maybe it's time to retire.”

 

After all, taking down a rookie would've been more challenging than today.

 

So, truly, this was all so very, very _pathetic._

 

“Now, please,” The whisper still maintained its serenity, even as another bullet was dying to shove itself into the man. “What were you doing in my neighborhood?”

 

“I'll never tell you anything, Shaw.”

 

Since she knew that to be the truth, said bullet got its heart's desire.

 

“I'm really disappointed in you, Hersch. I really was expecting more.”

 

Footsteps approached, and the sneer receded in a smirk of recognition.

 

“We’ve got a new mission?”

 

“Why else would I be here?” Root disdainfully looked down at the now dead agent as she helped Shaw up.

 

“Good.” A pause, as the women took one last glance at their target. A lagoon of blood had started to form only a few seconds ago, turning the pavement a disgusting shade of scarlet.

 

“Is he dead yet? I'm hungry.”

 

“I'm not paying this time.”

 

“Aww, but, _Sameen--_ ”

 

“Call me that again and I break your neck.”

 

“You're not paying, got it.”

 

They continue to walk on, bickering and bantering while the lagoon formed a lake.

 

…

 

“The irony is,” Greer wheezed out as growing rivulets of agony wreaked havoc on his body. “We were truly trying to be Good Samaritans.”

 

Harold raised an eyebrow at this statement, scoffing ever so slightly.

 

“That's a rather touching sentiment, Mr. Greer. However,” A bullet hurled itself from the shadows, permanently silencing the dying man, “ _Only_ a sentiment.”

 

The shadows formed into an apathetic assassin. One who no longer paid their target any heed.

 

“Truly, Mr. Reese, you have rather impeccable timing. He was beginning to bore me.”

 

Reese looked back to the shadows, shortly followed by a dashing Belgian Malinois. The dog stood next to the dead man, looking up at his Alpha with pleading eyes.

 

“ _Foie! Hier!_ ”

 

“I guess there’s no time for Bear to play with today’s toy, is there, Finch?”

 

“Unfortunately, not, Mr. Reese.” He was already on his way out the door. “We have another Number.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Right as they were leaving, Harold paused as though forgetting something.

 

Another bullet soon greeted Greer’s face.

 

“You know, I can’t hold myself accountable for my actions every time you do something like that, _Harold_.”

 

“Calm yourself, Mr. Reese. We’ll have time to enjoy ourselves later.” He paused, still coldly fixated on the gun he just fired. “Furthermore, patience is a necessity. You know as well as I do that the Numbers never stop coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, now that we got the dark!AU out of the way, I can go back to not questioning my life decisions. Have a nice day!


	54. Another One

“Leave me alone.” The shadows slithered into the room as the door opened slowly.

 

“Leave me alone.” He smiled from the doorway, his off-white hair glowing in the little light there was.

 

“I don't think we can do that just yet, Sameen.”

 

“Leave me the fu--” His grin morphed into a revolting smirk and she froze, knowing something was about to go horribly wrong. Her hand twitched, wishing to be closer to the gun that was only a foot away.

 

A phone rang, vibrating sharply on her night stand. 

 

Go figure the Machine still spied on her after all of these years.

 

But, the Machine was just doing its job:

 

Protecting an Irrelevant by any means possible. 

 

And, in this case, protection meant bringing Shaw back to reality.

 

“You're dead.” She finally said to the hallucination. “You scumbags are all dead. We killed you  _ years _ ago.”

 

He laughed at this, letting the indifferent cackle flood only her ears as she turned to the one thing that kept her sane.

 

“Go back to sleep, I've got this.”

 

“Another one, sweetie?” She’d long accepted the terms of endearment as part of the package 

 

“Yeah. Just another one. I'm fine, I can get the door.” The blankets protested this and were soon moved aside.

 

“Come back to bed. I'll get the door this time.” 

 

“Fine.”

 

Root smoothly rose from their bed as though she’d been awake the whole time and not just the last minute. Sameen stiffened as she watched Root approach Greer. He merely waved at Shaw, daring her to snatch the gun and shoot. She didn’t shoot.  

 

She only sighed.

 

Unfortunately, this wasn't a life altering moment.

 

This was routine.

 

Nevertheless, while the couple was used to Sameen’s waking nightmares, that didn’t make it feel any less real.

 

It’s true that the door was never really opened, that the lights stayed shut the entire time, and that nobody ever crept into their room.

 

Didn't make any less or terrifying. 

 

But, what also felt real -- and  _ incredibly _ satisfying -- was watching Root pull the door back and slam it in his face. 

 

Root would then turn back to Sameen, her reassuring glow breaking through the shadows as she took immense pleasure in seeing her lover relax ever so slightly. Then the woman would go back to bed to hold Sameen until they both eventually drifted back into sleep.

 

Even though it wasn't the perfect solution, they weren't perfect people.

 

Besides, she'd take this over solution Sameen sending a bullet through the house and scaring half the neighbors to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't let it be just the Machine and imply Root was no longer around. Not after the last ficlet.


	55. Alright

Carter grimaced at the paperwork in front of her. Even though it was entirely possible she was seeing double, she highly doubted that was the case.

 

“Coffee?” What would normally be a delicious, invigorating smell had her stomach reeling in discomfort.

 

“I'll take that as a no.”

 

“Sorry, Fusco,” She knew he meant well. “But, not today.”

 

He sat down at his desk, scanning her for a few more silent moments.

 

“You doing alright, Carter?”

 

“Yeah.” Because, even if she wasn't at her best, it was true that she was alright. “I'm alright.”

 

But, Fusco didn't really seem to buy that. He just fixed her with another thoughtful stare before shaking his head and going back to his desk.

 

Normally, she’d say more. Maybe even explain herself.

 

But her throat hurt and the paperwork wasn't going to wait. 

 

And neither was the bathroom.

 

…

 

Upon returning to her station after almost dry retching in the bathroom, she noticed a distinct change in paperwork.

 

Specifically, there wasn't any on her desk.

 

And Fusco’s own stack looked a lot thicker than it did ten minutes ago.

 

…

 

Upon getting home, she found a gift basket on the table, an unusually clean house, and a concerned Taylor with all of today’s homework done.

 

She didn’t even question how they knew. It didn’t matter if Fusco had mentioned it, if Finch’s supercomputer figured it out or what. 

 

The only thing that mattered was heading upstairs, resting in a blissfully cool room, and accepting Taylor’s inevitable attempt at chicken noodle soup.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to potentially put together a oneshot of H/C moments for each member of Team Machine, what do you think?


	56. Shark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Reese turns to something else other than drinking and Harold has to get his attention in a unusual fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, in this case, Harold can't be as injured as he is supposed to be. 
> 
> Also, there’s a shoutout to one my favorite scenes of the fanfiction, “Technical Support” by astolat. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Harold looked up at the building, sighing ever so slightly.

 

Loathe as he was to re-enter this sort of establishment, he did have a mission to accomplish.

 

And this next moment could be the key to its success or its continued failure.

 

…

 

John paid no real mind to the newcomer as the other man walked into the room. A slight limp traced itself in his legs, etching curiosity into his step. But he really just looked like another guy who didn't  know what he'd be walking into.

 

Honestly, Shaw’s suddenly slamming of the cue ball into the triangle was more distracting. She smirked, melding into the table as she glided through the solids.

 

“Has anyone called playing the winner?”

 

John glanced over at the soft-spoken newcomer right as Shaw almost slid the 8 into the back right corner pocket.

 

“It’s best out of three. And we’re just getting started.” Shaw growled as she stepped back from her mistake, irately letting John take her spot. He resisted the urge to smirk at this. Instead, he regained his footing the only way he know how --sinking four stripes into various pockets one after one. The stranger merely nodded at this, content to wait and observe.

 

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. Although they were evenly matched for the most part, Shaw got lucky when John scratched after going for the 8.

 

The stranger stood up, ready to take the cue stick from John.  
  
“Would you like me to put all of these pool balls into that black triangle or would you like to?” Shaw just stared at him, irritated.

 

“Winners always break here. Newbies or losers always rack.” _Which means you're always going to rack,_ was the message she was clearly sending over as she took her place.

 

Now, that would probably be the typical case.

 

The news that would surprise everyone was that this wasn't the typical case.

 

…

 

“Again.” Shaw snapped, hardly able to believe this stranger had managed to win again by “pure luck” for the fourth time out of seven games.

 

By this point, John and the rest of the bar were content to watch in awe. Nobody was quite willing to cheer on the stranger, for fear of aggravating Shaw, but everyone was deeply impressed.

 

“Unfortunately,” The stranger put down the cue stick, before holding out a hand to shake. “I’m afraid I have to call it a day. Excellent games, Miss Shaw.”

 

She just looked at the outstretched hand, refusing to believe he was willing to step away and call it quits.

 

And, because Shaw wasn't the only one in shock, he almost made it to the door in absolute silence.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

John didn’t realize he had asked until it was in the air. The stranger turned, a slight smile on his lips.

 

“You can call me Mr. Finch.”

 

“No first name to go with that?” At this, Finch paused before a knowing look curled into his face.

 

“I'm a very private person, Mr. Reese.”

 

And since he managed to stun his only interrogator, Finch was allowed to leave in absolute silence.

 

…

 

Almost every night Finch would arrive right on schedule. Some nights, he’d be late by quite a few hours. Other nights, he’d look exhausted.

 

But he always came.

 

And John was always waiting. Sometimes, he’d have questions. Other nights, he'd play the game in absolute silence.

 

But he was always there.

 

...

 

It had happened as John stared down the 8. 

 

That particular black pearl laid only a few inches away from the left side pocket, a tantalizing siren resting in a sea of moss.

 

He absolutely hated those shots. They required a precise hit from the cue ball that hopefully would coax the 8 ball to slide right into the pocket.

 

"Left middle pocket." He said, feeling Finch's curious stare held onto him because they both knew that this was a type of shot he struggled with.

 

But something changed this time.

 

This time he was able to slide the cue stick through deceptively calm fingers and gently pull the wooden trigger. 

 

This time, the siren listened to his call.

 

And, as that pearl glided into pocket, he heard a hand stretch itself for the customary tradition.

 

"Good game," He said, enjoying the feel of Finch's soft hands in his.

 

"Harold."

 

The handshake paused.

 

A smile widened.

 

...

 

“You really could be a pool shark.”

 

Harold just looked at him with a coyly raised eyebrow. But his eyes clutched a knowing gaze. A gaze that held something John would’ve missed weeks ago.

 

“But,” John paused, finally recognizing the man’s look for what it was. “You don't care about the money. You have a different reason for playing.”

 

The eyebrows softened along with eyes. A genuine upward twitch of the lips allowed itself to show. He tilted his head, as though pondering what exactly he should say next.

 

“Pool Shark!” A shout from the main room brought them out of whatever _that_ was, “Am I kicking your ass today or what?”

 

…

 

“Want to play another round?”

 

Harold wearily glanced back down at his phone, as though unsure of something. And, for a moment, John thought he’d finally push the man to his limit as he watched that exhausted frown fix itself into thin lips.

 

But then that hint of a thoughtful beam snuck through the clouds of stress.

 

“Just one more round.”

 

...

 

“So, where’d you learn to play?”

 

“Dad taught me pool when I was six. Mom taught me how to win.”

 

The typical vague upward twitch melted into a genuine smile. Unbeknownst to John, he was relishing in the fact that this was new knowledge.

 

“Where'd you learn?”

 

The reclusive man gave a more bemused look, contemplating exactly how much he should reveal.

 

But this was nothing in the grand scheme and his story wouldn't give any significant details away.

 

“My friend.” Nostalgia seemed to cradle his tone at the thought of this. “He insisted that I learn when I came to college.”

 

He looked up to caught a warm hint of something unfamiliar -- something unfamiliar but _nice_ \-- flare in Reese.

 

And within himself, something seemed to be stirring at this moment. But what exactly it was, he couldn't quite tell. If he had to guess, maybe--

 

“Would you like to get coffee sometime?”

 

Finch looked up, momentarily confused.

 

“I, well-- that is to say that… Well you see,”

 

John laughed at this, enjoying this new side to the man.

 

"It's only coffee, Harold." 

 

...

 

After a few more moments of incoherent blathering, the man realized that he was not being coerced into anything more than a brief chat  _outside_ of the pool room.

 

While that had been the eventual goal of these moments, Harold still had difficulty connecting said goal with reality.

 

Fortunately, he managed.

 

"Coffee sounds-- coffee would be nice."

 

…

 

After more than an hour of chattering -- nothing too revealing, but still, an inordinate amount of time spent  _socializing_ of all things -- Harold was beginning to realize that they hadn't even ordered their coffee yet.

 

That's when his ears picked up the sound of an old phone ringing in the back of the cafe. 

 

Said phone had apparently been ringing for quite a few minutes, according to Joh-- Mr. Reese

 

...

 

“John, I built this Machine, it--”  John stepped forward, backing Harold even further against the wall.

 

“It's okay, Harold. Machines are built all the time. So,” He knew this was a lot more than just any old machine and arms reached up to block the man further in, staring intensely at him. "I don't care."

 

The pool shark was effectively caged.

 

And he knew it.

 

“There is that, I suppose. But--” And then lips snuggled into lips and they both sank into a delectable kiss.

 

…

 

Once Harold properly explained his job, John was quite willing to join the cause on two conditions:

 

1) They remained partners in every sense of the word.

 

2) There had to be a pool table thrown somewhere in the mix.

 

..

 

The reason to finally leave came in the form of idiots acting as though they owned the place. John and Harold both looked up in disinterest as the group swaggered their way over to the table.

 

“I heard there was a pool shark in this joint. A pool shark who’s about to be schooled.” Truly, only a fool would call attention to himself in such a fashion.

 

Furthermore, only someone of a more dimwitted nature would assume a facetious rumor -- a playful nickname for a quirky situation, really -- to be reality.

 

Harold merely leaned over to catch John’s eyes, hints of mischief dancing in his eyes.

 

“Course,” Today’s town fool kept speaking, putting a hand on the cue stick poised to break the racked set. “I didn't expect it to be _you_.”

 

Sameen Shaw looked up from her posture, frostily staring down this arrogant newcomer with a very thin, very shark-like, grin.

 

“Perhaps, John,” Came the whisper as they watched Shaw trounce her unworthy opponent. “This slight misunderstanding is an opportunity in disguise.”

 

“I think you're quite right, Harold.”

 

After all, anyone worthy of winning the game would know who they were supposed to be dealing with. They would also understand Harold’s reputation of acting like a pool shark, even if he never condoned gambling on his behalf.

 

Granted, Shaw made an excellent red herring. Who would reap the reward of crushing such a simpleton with great satisfaction.

 

...

 

She walked into the room with a purpose. After all, chess was only interesting up to a certain point and riling up these kinds of people was always fun.

 

"Mind if I take the next round?" Root spoke in that unassuming tone of hers. 

 

Shaw stiffened at the sound of such sugary sweetness, her back to the woman.

 

So, maybe, that irritatingly pleasant sound was the reason the cue suddenly went flying off the table.

 

_So what?_

 

"It's best out of three." She growled, resisting the urge to groan at the sudden familiarity. "And we're just getting started."


	57. "Reference, Mr. Finch speaking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tribute to one of my favorite movies -- Desk Set (1957) featuring Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. 
> 
> There will be borrowed dialogue (but altered to fit the characters) from the movie, and it won’t be a complete repeat.
> 
> Also, I'd be down to write up the full version of this at some point if you're interested.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

John Reese calmly strolled into Room 2809, certain that he’d be facing another uncertain situation. After all, he’d never had to properly look into a reference department in this kind of fashion.

He opened the translucent door, unsurprised to find bookshelf upon bookshelf accenting the room with filing cabinets swarming all other available space. A classy winding staircase led up to a mezzanine of treasure troves of research, while three desks took the main floor of the room.

All in all, the space seemed to be brimming with welcoming intelligence.

“Reference, Miss Carter, speaking,” A beautiful dark-skinned woman sat in the centered desk, poised and ready to recite information at a heart’s moment. She definitely had seniority over the bunch, even though she wasn’t the boss. “The highest lifetime batting average? That would be held by Tyrus Raymond Cobb with a percentage of .367”

But baseball had never really intrigued John. At least, not to the extent where he’d want to actively listen to her following statistics.

No, John was far more interested in measuring the place.

And sitting down.

“Good morning!” Miss Carter apparently noticed him. But, he didn’t mind.

“Morning.”

“May I help you?”

“No, no thanks. Interesting place, mind if I look around a little?” But, he was already ready to get out of his chair.

“Not at all,” She said with a pleasant enough smile. But, out of the corner of her eyes she followed him vigilantly. “Make yourself right at home.”

After all, Miss Carter had just been cautioned about Mr. Reese’s presence before he arrived. But exactly what she was supposed to be on the look-out for still escaped her.

Nonetheless, that’s why she worked in a team and not by herself.

“What’s he up to?”

“Who is he?”

“John Reese. Ingram wants to see him. If he leaves here, we’re supposed to tail him.”

“Who told you that?”

“Samantha.” At this point, the girls wanted to keep chattering away. But Reese was already at the top of the stairs, scanning for something in particular before pulling out an old-fashioned measuring tape.

And then the phone rang.

“Hello, Reference, Miss Hendricks.” She paused. “Oh, it’s for you, Mr. Reese.”

He turned, a bemused eyebrow twitching, “How’d you know my name?”

“You didn’t say it before?”

“No.”

“Oh.” But he wasn't genuinely perturbed. In fact, he was already heading back down the stairs at this. And, in only a few moments, he was picking up the phone, clearly ready to fully focus on the new conversation that was literally at hand.

“Well, why don’t you have him call me when he’s ready? Good, I’ll stay here until then.”

Conversation over, he was back to business.

“Would one of you please hold this tape for me?” Miss Shaw reached for it, being the logical choice.

“Thank you. Would you mind holding it against the wall, Miss --?”

“Shaw. That’s Carter-- Miss Carter and Miss Hendricks.”

“How do you do?”

“Fine, thank you.” But once again he was concentrating on measuring the tape.

“All the way over against that wall, thank you.” They watched in silence, fascination expanding by the moment.

“What’s it going to be?” Miss Carter could no longer restrain her curiosity.

“Is Mr. Finch in?”

“Mr. Finch?”

“Yes, he’s the Head of Reference, right?”

“Right, he just stepped out.”

  
“Will he be out long?”

“Well, no. He’s probably on the 31st floor, having a conference with his boss. Is there something that I could maybe help you with?”

“No. I’ll just wait.”

“Well, then why don’t you step in here? You’ll be more comfortable in his office.”

  
“Thanks.” And, upon being allowed to step into the office, the measuring began once again.

“What’s with the tape?” Shaw asked, more cordially than Carter expected.

“Do you think we might be getting some art in here?”

“He really looks like an interior decorator to you?”

“No, he does not!” Joss fixed the office with a hard stare. “He looks like one of those men who’s just suddenly switched to Vodka.”

And, it was on that note that their boss decided to walk in.

“Good morning, team.” He smiled, clutching his new treasure close. “Wait till you see what I procured for Monica at Bonwit’s.” But that smile immediately shifted into a confused frown as he was quickly hushed by his own team.

“What’s going on? Joss? Miss Shaw?”

  
“Harold, you’ve been in conference all morning.”

“No, I haven’t. You know for a fact--”

“There’s a weird man in there waiting for you, he’s been waiting for you for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Well, what have I done?”

“Harold,” Joss sharply inserted herself into the conversation. Being his oldest friend of the office -- and essentially his colleague rather than his subordinate -- she had no issues being blunt with. “You’re late. Ingram’s sent this guy down here. And, on the off chance he can get you fired--”

“Really, Miss Carter,” Rarely did Harold stiffly call her by her title these days. “I was here till almost midnight last night, and this morning at eight I had to go to IBM to see a demonstration of this fascinating new machine -- the electronic new brain -- and on my way here I stopped at Bonwit’s. So why exactly--”

“Mr. Finch?” By this point, Mr. Reese had stepped out of the office.

“Speaking.” Harold took a hesitant step forward with an unsure smile, not really sure why such a well dressed man would paying their office a visit.

“My name is John Reese.”

“Well, numerologically, that is a fascinating name. Nine letters.” They stepped forward, meeting for the first time and yet still smiling as though they had met before -- even if they couldn’t remember it.

“You calculate rapidly.” Harold chuckled at this as they shook hands.

“Up to nine, at the very least.” And John chuckled at that too before turning his attention back to the situation at hand.

“It’s a nice office you’ve got here. You like it?”

“Yes, I love it! If I didn’t work here, I’d pay to get in.” The genuine twinkle in Harold’s eyes faded as he remembered that he still didn’t have a clue as to what was going on.

“Are you from the story department, Mr. Reese?”

“No. I’m not.” The uncertain smile faded into a thin frown masquerading as a neutral line. “I wonder if we could chat in your office.”

“Certainly. Go right in.”

“Thank you.”

As Mr. Reese stepped into the office Harold shared a puzzled look with the women before stepping in himself.

Who exactly was this Mr. Reese?

  
And, why exactly did he need to be there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned before, I’d be happy to write up the rest of this and publish it as its own little story. Let me know what you think!


	58. Snowflakes Keep Falling On My Head

Watching the skies drop feathery light icy kisses always warmed her soul.

 

Probably made her seem more of a romantic than she already appeared to be. 

 

But she couldn't help it.

 

She apparently was a sucker for the cold whether that was snowy weather, frigid feet, or unusually cool attitudes.

 

Which is probably why she was standing on a rooftop during the coldest time of year.

 

“You know, standing outside in this weather for hours on end isn't the smartest of ideas, Sameen.”

 

“Did you bring it, Root? Or did you just come here to mother-hen me?”

 

She smiled, stepping forth with the item in question.

 

“One cup of cocoa, coming right up. But first,” Warm lips caressed frigid ones. “A reminder of what'll be waiting for you by the fire.”

 

“Just pass the damn cocoa.” Another smile.

 

Another stolen kiss.

 

“You say the sweetest things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're dipping back in drabbles, but by no means does that mean we're not delving back into potential stories :)


	59. (Im)maturity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, five of the times Fusco has to interact with children in some way, shape, or form. And one of the times he gets to be the child.

“So,” She sat stiffly, staring directly at the principal. Her partner elbowed her ever so sharply to get a move on and she glared at him before continuing her statement.

 

“We would like to enroll ou-- our-- _his_ \--”

 

“We would like to enroll our boy Lee into your school.”

 

Shaw’s right eye twitched at this.

 

“Okay,” The school principal and this week's number, a Mr. Carrera, looked a little apprehensive about the whole situation.

 

Mainly because this was probably most unorthodox situation he’s dealt with in months.

 

“So, you'd like to enroll your son into our school,” Fusco smiled encouragingly. “In the middle of February.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“... Okay.” They all sat in a silence that was coated in awkwardness.

 

…

 

After the unusually mismatched couple left his office half an hour later, Mr. Carrera resisted the urge to sigh.

 

Upon hearing Mrs. Fusco snarl that they were “doing this her way next time.”, Mr. Carrera no longer resisted the urge.

 

__.__

 

“Finch,” This was undoubtedly the end of Fusco's rope, judging from the undeniably snappish tone. “You've had me take care of that model once, and I'll always be quite grateful for that case. But, this--”

 

“Lionieee!” He cringed at the nickname, never ever wanting to hear his name spoken in such a weird fashion again.

 

_“Detective, I only need you to stay by his side for a few more minutes. I'm quite close--”_

 

“Finch-” He almost growled.

 

_“I'm quite sorry, Detective, but I cannot break the speed limit and have these discussions with you.”_ And then Finch hung up.

 

Leaving Fusco to deal with a drugged Wonderboy. Who was certainly far more intimidating and far more messed up than a drugged Glasses.

 

“You wanna blow up the NSA?”

 

He groaned at this request, remembering an all too similar moment.

 

“No? How about the FBI?”

 

___.___

 

The concept of a sick day in the Fusco household often meant a worn down Lee either curled up in bed or a beaten up Lionel coughing up a storm. It didn't always happen but during the stressful times of the year some illness or cold was bound to knock down the members of this house.

 

Unfortunately, usually Lee was the only one able to take a day off. And, worse still, his jobs usually required Fusco to step away from his son for most of said day.

 

It wasn't fair, but it was normal.

 

So, when he doesn't get a call from Glasses and when work actually let's him off on the same day, he doesn't question it.

 

He just hauls ass back to the house and gets the chicken noodle soup ready.

 

__.__

 

He got out of the car, and proceeds to charge around the back. The air was already crackling with that disgusting vibration that someone could die right here, right now.

 

So, when he saw the gun turned on the kid, all he could do was see Lee in that kid’s place. Which pushes him to go even faster, to fling himself an incredibly far amount only to--

 

Only to get shot in that particular sore spot and smack into the unforgivingly tickled pavement.

 

“Fusco, you okay?”

 

He could already picture the ass jokes from both the precinct _and_ Reese.

 

“Yeah, just peachy.”

 

_Why couldn't I just get shot in the back? The heart, even?_

 

___.___

 

“Detective, I'm afraid I haven't been properly introduced to your companion?”

 

“Finch, meet Sarah.” The girl in question only stilled even more at the introduction, wide eyes shyly fixed on the floor. “Sarah here was Chloe’s friend. They'd been hanging out in Chloe’s room when it had happened.”

 

When the gunshots rang through the house.

 

When they had been far too late and far too wrong about everything.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Problem is, Sarah’s an orphan. Lost everyone she’s ever had for a while now.” Finch nodded at this, looking back to the timid girl.

 

“May I ask why she's still with you, Detective?” It wasn't a sharp or judgmental tone. Just curious.

 

But Sarah still tightened her grip on Fusco’s leg, brown eyes flashing up in fear.

 

At this, Lionel just shrugged to Finch before kneeling down and giving the girl what he hoped to be a soothing hug.

 

“Apparently, I remind her of her favorite uncle. Go figure he was a decent guy and a good cop.”

 

_Aka, nothing like me._

 

But, Sarah didn't seem to agree with Fusco’s internal assessment as she clutched onto the hug, finally letting his beaten-up shirt soak up her tears.

 

“It's okay, kid.” The sniffles kicked up again, this time from more than one person. “I'm not leaving you anytime soon.”

 

They continued to cry through the grief, the mistakes that cost lives. They clung onto each other and the comforts of such a familial hug.

 

Neither of them noticed Finch slip away.

 

...

 

If Gen were to eventually receive another school friend -- and another visitor in the form of a gruff cop -- she wouldn't be one to complain.

 

"What do you think about a career in espionage?" She would simply ask the girl upon their first meeting, content to ignore Fusco's guffaw of disbelief.

 

__.__

 

“Guess what?”

 

Reese groaned at this, already knowing where the topic was going.

 

“What, Lionel?”

 

The detective cackled unabashedly.

 

“I didn't get in trouble with Glasses today. _You_ did!”

 

Apparently, Finch caught on to one of Reese’s spying techniques long before the man could remove any of the evidence.

 

Furthermore, it seemed like it was one of the more _invasive_ kind. Leading to a ticked off Finch and a very grumpy Wonderboy.

 

And an incredibly insufferably pleased Fusco.

 

Whose smirk only grew throughout the day.

 

“I will shoot you, Detective.”

 

Said detective stopped in his teasing tracks.

 

Only to proceed to hop back onto that path a moment later.

 

“No need to be such a spoilsport, _John._ ”


	60. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a drabble for any shipper in the crowd. I attach no pairing of my own.
> 
> Enjoy!

_ “In Paradise,” _

 

It would happen every time the other was unaware.

 

_ “The sun will rise.” _

 

In an unusually peaceful moment, eyes would glance up and smile softly at the oblivious recipient.

 

_ “And I will wake to face the skies,” _

 

It was those small absorptions of blissful serenity that pushed them forward. That kept them striving to live.

 

_ “Ever roaming in your eyes.” _

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

 

_ “There I go lost in your eyes.”  _


	61. Your Friendly Resident Assistant!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka, your RA!

“Is there a problem?”

  
Well, you see, there had been a problem. I definitely had a problem, which definitely took me to what I’ve been hoping is my RA’s door. But when I knocked on it, the last person I had been expecting to see was the one who just so happened to open the door.

 

And, so, I’d forgotten my original problem in the face of my new one:

 

My RA was apparently the one person I had accidentally smacked into today when I tripped over my own shoelaces earlier.

 

And she didn’t look any more happy than she did when I first saw her.

 

“Well, uh, you see,”  _ Why did I think I could handle college? _

 

She just looked at me, and I swear I saw a smile in that frigid stare of hers. Her eyes seemed to boring disinterestedly holes into my problem and, really, aren’t RAs supposed to be your best friends you can always go to in college? That’s what they said in the tour at least.

 

“Shaw, leave her alone. She’s not one of yours.”  _ Huh? _

 

A much more pleasant face made its way to the door, one I’m sure I haven’t knocked into yet. 

 

“Hi, I’m Joss and I believe I’m your RA. What’s your name?”

 

I sighed in relief and then realized I did so quite noticeably. This only caused laughter from inside the room -- there were apparently a few more people hanging out in the room than I thought. Shaw stiffened even more than I thought she could and a shark-like smirk vanished for something more sinister.

 

_ Well, it can’t get any worse than this, can I? _

 

“You do have a name, right?” Shaw asked, reminding me that things that can get worse and I really was taking too much time to respond.

 

“Cadence! I-- I’m Cadence.” Which really is an unfortunately ironic name if you think about it: any cadence I have is an unfortunate klutzy monstrosity that results in me eventually tripping and breaking someone’s face.

 

“Nice to meet you, Cadence. You’re the kid who had to move-in late right? Coming from North Carolina, if I remember correctly?” I nodded again, feeling more at ease now that I wasn’t being glared down by the Ice-Queen-Who-Is-Fortunately- _Not_ -My-RA.

 

_ What a mouthful. At least I didn’t say it aloud-- wait, wait, did I respond?? _

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Joss!”

 

_ Wait, wait --  “Not one of yours”...? _

 

_ Is that woman I just met really an RA?? _

 

“Well, you can come inside if you’d like.” A guy’s voice sounded from inside. “You did just save us from having to deal with the  _ lovebirds _ .”

 

“I would hardly consider my relationship with John to be the equivalent of…” The other guy kept going, but I was already lost. So very, very lost and so very, very confused.

 

But, I guess that’s the point of college? 

 

… _Maybe?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, if you've got any corny, cheesy, or just plain “so bad they're good” jokes I’d love to hear them! And, with your permission, use them in a later piece <3
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> Furthermore,  
>  **fan requests are still being taken.**  
>  I’d love to hear any suggestions you’ve got -- there’s   
>  **eight**  
>  more requests I can take :)   
> 


	62. Anyone Can Whistle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a beautiful, simple ballad that is the title song from Sondheim’s musical Anyone Can Whistle. It is one of my favorite Broadway songs (especially the original show’s version, sung by Lee Remick). And it has been my favorite for many years now. Lyrics are, of course, italicized.

_ Anyone can whistle, _

_ That's what they say, _

_ Easy... _

 

Human interaction has always been difficult for me.

 

_ Anyone can whistle, _

_ Any old day, _

_ Easy...  _

 

Though I know Mr. Reese only intends to use teasing as a form of education, it only further illustrates my point:

 

_ It's all so simple: _

 

I can recognize my socially awkward tendencies.

 

_ Relax, _

 

He speaks of trust, of how it's crucial to survival.

 

_ Let go, _

 

He asks me to let him in.

 

_ Let fly! _

 

He wants me to love him.

 

_ So someone tell me, _

 

_ Why, can't I? _

 

Every moment I feel myself begin to start to change for the better, walls still surround me. Habitual walls that I want to tear down and yet walls that lovingly protect me from the world.

 

_ I can dance the Tango, _

 

I know many theoretical concepts and theories that delve into the subject of romance. I understand the psychological differences between lust, love, platonic affection, and other subjects relating to that particular topic.

 

_ I can read Greek, _

 

To be a decent coder is marginally impressive. To be a hacker who hasn't gotten caught is eye-catching. 

 

To have written several of the most complex computer systems in existence and to have built one of the most detail-catching and analytical surveillance systems in the World is mildly indescribable.

 

_ Easy. _

 

But, put me in front of a cup of coffee or, better yet, outright say you love me. And then watch as how all that goes to hell.

 

_ I can slay a dragon, _

_ Any old week! _

_ Easy… _

 

To have outbid the FBI, to have escaped HR, and a host of other enemies can be a little... trying at times.

 

Doable, nonetheless.

 

_ What's hard, is simple. _

_ What's natural, comes hard. _

 

But put me in front of that cup of coffee…

 

_ Maybe you could show me, _

 

And, he did put me in front of that cup. 

 

_ How to let go _ ,

 

And he's never said those words -- neither of us can ever truly trust the other to say those words -- but, still, I've felt them radiate from his smile.

 

_ Lower my guard, _

 

Maybe, next time,  _ I  _ can take us to get that cup of coffee.

 

_ Learn to be free… _

 

Because, I think I just want to be with people. Not “interact”.

 

Just be.

 

_ Maybe,  _

_ If you whistle, _

_ Whistle for… _

_ Me. _


	63. Warehouse of Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when I write at 2am in the morning... you've been warned xD

 

“Fix this. _Now_.”

 

“Look, I'm afraid I can't just fix your problem, Mr. Reese. It's just not that simple.”

 

It really made for quite an interesting scene:

 

Myka and Pete were being held back by an irritated Shaw while Claudia was being handled by a unusually displeased Root.

 

“Look, I don't know why you're here. But the problem is that your friend, Mr. Finch, managed to get himself has potentially gotten into trouble with some sinister characters. I’m not really sure why you were brought out here, but I'm sure if you continue your search back in New York-”

 

“My source and I aren’t interested in lies, Mr. Weisfelt.” 

 

All of the Warehouse agents stiffened, not really caring for Reese’s tone. Or the fact that he was, judging from the displeased emotion radiating off of Artie, at the advantage when it came to information.

 

See, nobody just bangs on the front door of the Warehouse demanding answers. Not only that, no stranger is able to just _walk_ into the Warehouse without triggering the alarms and then proceed to just _give away_ maniacally clutched information at the drop of a hat.

 

It just doesn’t happen. And that in itself makes this whole incident not only vexing, confusing and frustrating but also intimidating.

 

Not that any of the agents were  _ever_ going to admit that little fact.

 

“Look, I don't care about your Warehouse, your artifacts or your secret job. All I care about--”

 

_“How did you--”_

 

But, Reese was definitely not in the mood to play games. “All I care about right now is getting my friend back. And my source says you know how to get him back. So that's what we're gonna do.”

 

“Look, as much as I’d like to help-”

 

And, Artie really did mean it. But, either way, it seemed pointless: Reese was already turning away and straightening up -- as though receiving new commands.

 

“We’ll be in touch.” Reese intoned calmly, as though this were all a simple conversation about South Dakota's weather.

 

And then the he man and his… coworkers were heading out the door and walking back towards the cars they'd arrived in. By this point, the senior agent had moved past a suspicious feeling that he would soon be taking a flight to New York and was now arranging a mental to-do list.

 

And, true to form, by the time these strangers got out of the umbilicus the team’s new instructions had already been assigned to the senior agent.

 

Via the Farnsworth, of course.

 

“Looks like we're going to New York. And, yes, I mean _we_ and not just me. Pete, get Claudia out of the main floor. And, Myka, make sure that neither of them even _look_ at anything in the process.” He then turned back to his thoughts, shooing the others away “Now, Leena can take care of the Warehouse in our absence, though she’ll have to be mindful of the Mozart’s flute…” And so the mutterings of the agent began.

 

“Artie? Why are we _all_ needed in New York?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, well that's because orders are orders.” He turned back to his work, shooing them away to get one last moment of peace before the chaos of a new assignment began..

 

But, it was never destined to be peaceful in the Warehouse. Or quiet, for that matter.

 

“Gramps! What the fizzle is going on, ma nizzle?”

 

Artie sighed at the term, just like he would normally. But what he said next was the unusual part.

 

“Not a clue.”

 

Claudia blinked at the simple, short response. She blinked again when she realized he had nothing else to hint at or say.

 

Normally he would at least be cryptic or give away something in his snappish mutterings. But, apparently, this was not going to be a normal case.

 

Even by _their_ standards.


	64. Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Just as Claire has made her choice, I’ve made mine....”_  
>   

 “Forgive me, I’ve only just finished wiring it for power.” The words were spoken calmly, as though Finch were only talking about a book he’d just finished reading.

 

“Power?”

 

“Power, indeed, the Third Rail: it’s a remarkably potent source and nearly impossible for the city to trace.”

 

And with the flick of a switch, life was breathed back into the station. Hours of wiring and hard work became illuminated in the flash of a second.

 

To say John was stunned would be an understatement.

 

“A subway repair line. Built in the 30s and used until it was cut off by the city’s new main water line, abandoned for decades. _Antiques_ …” And, at the sound of that word echoing into the renewed space, John turned to his old friend.

 

“Like us, Harold?” Said man in question merely directed his beam of pride back, wonderment blending into bemusement.

 

“I supposed they are a bit like us: living underground, resisting the new age that’s trying to make us _irrelevant,_ ” They shared a look at the not-so-inside joke. “And, like us, they still work.”

 

He approached the man, a mixture of feigned detachment and curiosity interweaving into his step because he couldn’t believe this was really happening.

 

“How did you find this place?”

 

This time, a promise snuck into bemused eyes as a hint of pride eased his statement into the air.

 

“We may have underestimated Samaritan, but Samaritan has underestimated the Machine. It led me here, to help us fight back.”

 

At such strong words, John couldn’t help but completely focus his attention on Harold as he followed the man, entranced.  


“And by tapping into underground fibers and spoofing half of the web addresses on the West Side, I created--”

 

“A secure way to get online? This is a new base of operations.”

 

“A safe haven. I originally intended it for _you_ and Miss Shaw. But, in light of recent developments…” The unspoken statement dangled itself from the suddenly furrowed brows, disappointment creeping into his tone.  

 

“Finch, are you telling me that you're--” But the last word sank into silence, not quite being able to reach the air.

 

John just couldn't say it. He just couldn't say what he had been hoping throughout this entire conversation was true. It was just too fragile a concept to hold onto, the idea that he really wasn’t going to be losing his frie-- _Harold_ , once again.

 

The genius caught his stare, immediately understanding the hesitation. He held trembling eye contact in silence, reaching forward to comforting hold John’s hand whilst a hint of happiness brushed itself into the room.

 

“Yes, John.” He said, lips flickering into a beautiful smile. “I’m back--”

 

Arms wrapped around him, finally being given permission to grasp reality. He could feel slight trembles of relief echo in both of their bodies. And it was this that caused his own arms to respond in turn.

 

“I’m back, John. I'm back.”

 

And the promise to stay there, to fight until the very end, melded into hug.

 

It was never officially uttered, but it remained all the same.

 

“The truth is,” He eventually spoke, surprised at how easy it was to slip into this embrace. “I couldn’t stand by and watch my friends-- watch _you_ risk everything doing work that I myself began.”

 

The embrace tightened. Tears threatened to slide into each other. Both men had become so accustomed to this necessary separation that it was overwhelming to let go of that separation and just be themselves.

 

“We’re not just fighting for people’s lives anymore.” He still had to bring relevancy to this, he couldn’t just let the overwhelming ecstasy fill the room. “If we lose and Samaritan wins,”

 

That’s when John had to interrupt this anxious incoming train of thought. He can feel tension start to build a new boundary in Harold to prepare for the future sacrifices.

 

Fortunately, he had always been very good at interrupting.

 

When they finally allowed themselves to break apart and breathe, still firmly taking hold of one another, that’s when he allowed himself to speak.

 

“Samaritan isn’t going to win. We’re going to push back, Harold. And, we’re going to do this together.” The man looked up at his companion, a smile coming back once again.

 

“Together.” Another pause, this one of gratuity. “Well, I suppose Miss Shaw will soon have deciphered my Byzantine directions.”

 

He shifted to finally let go, but John wouldn’t allow it just yet.

 

“We do have to get to work at some point, Mr. Reese.” He pointedly remarked, even as his faint twinkle showed how he was more content to stay in this moment than do anything else just yet.

 

“We will when Shaw gets here.” An eyebrow raised. “It’s not as though she hasn’t seen us like this before.”

 

A chuckle entered the room at the thought, filling up their sanctuary with one more divine moment as the two men breathed into each other and allowed everything to just be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I turned it into more of a Rinch scene than it already was. Is that really such a bad thing?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Also, last call for corny jokes! And you’ll see why, probably in about a day ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Annndddd, if you didn’t see it already,   
> **The Desk Set of Interest**  
>  has now had its prologue posted on AO3. It won’t updated on a daily basis like Relevance but it will be completed! :)  
> 


	65. Knock, Knock

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“Why?”

“To get away from Shaw trying to eat the chicken farm.”

“...”

“Hehe--”

“Not god awful, _Lionel_. Why did the egg looked smashed to pieces?”

“I don't think I want to know.”

“Because I smashed it on your head.”

“No, you didn't--” _Smash_.

“There. Happy?”

“No.”

“Good. I am.”

…

 

“Is there anyone you don’t work for, Zoe?”

“Kleptomaniacs.”

“...?”

“They always take things literally.”

“…"

"..."

"Was-- was that a pun?”

…

 

“Knock, knock, Harry.”

“... Who’s there, Miss Groves?”

“To.”

“To who?”

“To _whom_ , Harry, to whom! I cannot believe you of all people forgot one of the more obvious rules of grammar.”

“...”

“Now, Harry, pouting isn't going to get you anywhere.”

 

…

 

“Hey, mom! Can I tell you about this group of Norse monarchs I learned about today?”

“Sure, Taylor.”

“Long story short, there was apparently a motorcycle gang of ancient bisexual Norse monarchs called the _Bikings_.”

“...”

“... Funny, am I right or am I right, mom?”

“Get off of Facebook, Taylor.”

 

…

 

“Finch, listen to this -- “A Mathematician Positive About Large Agriculture Equipment: Protractor.”

“...”

“Better yet, here’s something interesting: A farmer in a field with his cows counted 196 of them, but when he rounded them up he had 200.”

“.... Mr. Reese, if you are interested in retiring or switching careers and going into agriculture, you need only ask.”

 

...

 

"You have such an intelligent dog!"

"Why, thank you."

"So intelligent, he's almost a magician. Do you know what you call a dog magician?"

"What?"

"A Labracadabrador!"

".. He's actually a Belgian Malinois."

 

... 

“That’s a nice ham you got there. Be a shame if someone put an ‘s’ in front of it and an ‘e’ behind it.”

“And it’d be a shame if this steak I just bought for you was given to John, wouldn’t it?”

 

…

 

“Hey, dad, there was apparently an explosion at a cheese factory in France.”

“What?”

“Yeah! There was _de-brie_ everywhere.”

“...”

“... You know you love me.”

 

...

 

“Hey, hey, I can be useful! I- I can tell jokes!”

“Alright, Leon, tell us a joke and we’ll see if it’s funny. If we laugh, we kill you quickly. If we don’t laugh, we torture you first.”

“That's not funny…”

“And we're still not laughing.”

“Ummm.... Uh... why can’t T-rexes ride bikes?”

“Why, Leon?”

“... Bec-- because they’re... dead?”

“...”

“... Please don't kill me?"

…

 

“What’d you think of the wedding, Root?”

“Quite emotional, John. I think even the cake was in _tiers_.”

“... Please don't ever do that again."

 

…

 

“I’m afraid I don’t get it.”

“Well, it was either this or having you find a stuffed unicorn head in your bed.”

“... Okay then. Boss, you certainly have an interesting sense of humor.”

“Why don't you sound it out, Anthony?”

“Okay. The word ‘Just’ has been written out inside my glasses’ case. 'Just' is inside my case-- ‘Just in case’!”

“Glasses are a respectable accessory, Anthony. And, seeing as you never wear them or contacts, I figured this would be an appropriate reminder to -- why are you laughing?

“Boss,” _Snicker._ “You only had to ask.”

…

 

“Hey, Finch, what's black,” _Bang._

“White,” _Slash._

“And red all over?”  _Fall._

“... I'm not sure I want to know the answer to that, Miss Shaw.”

 

…

 

“Know any jokes, Finch?”

“...”

“I’m sure you’ve got something funny up your sleeve, Harold.” 

“If you insist. Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of his life. This, of course, produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail. Furthermore, with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath. Consequently, this made him a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.”

“...” 

“You did asked for a joke, Mr. Reese. You never said it had to be good.”

“... Now _that_ was funny, Harold.”


	66. To Boldly Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one plays around with several of my favorite Star Trek moments from multiple shows. If any of you recognize anything (or watch any of the Star Trek shows/movies), I hope you enjoy this little tribute. Even if that's not the case, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Also, this blends some characterization from the Original Series’ crew with POI. So they're going to sound a little different because they're mirroring their respective counterparts. I'm trying to keep their original characterization in mind, but you'll see what I mean.

_ Space, _

_ The Final Frontier. _

_ These are the Voyages of the Starship Infinity, _

_ Its ongoing mission to understand strange, new worlds, _

_ To save new life forms and new civilizations. _

_ To boldly investigate the infinite possibilities _

_ Of existence… _

…

 

A clock ticked in the background, mechanically counting off the seconds. 

 

Well, at least he hoped it was a clock. There was no light, no shadows, no anything.

 

Just darkness.

 

And a faint voice? 

 

Muffled words were trying to grasp his attention. A familiar voice, but one that seemed to be unable to reach him.

 

The clock didn't care, content to keep on ticking.

 

…

 

“We found them, Lieutenant.”

 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Beam them back already!”

 

…

 

The abyss began to shake, the clock ticking louder by the second until it was an all-encompassing sound.

 

“John?”

 

“Yes, Harold?”

 

“I think they've found us.”

 

…

 

Lieutenant Groves smiled widely as she relayed the information to the Bridge.

 

“I repeat, the Captain and Commander Finch have been beamed aboard.”

 

_ “About damn time, too.”  _ Came the irascible growl of her favorite doctor. Unfortunately, said doctor was transmitting from the Transporter Room -- where she was waiting to corner her commanding officers into medical treatment.

 

But there'd be time later to pay a visit.

 

…

 

“How long were we in stasis, Shaw?”

 

Delectable hints of refreshingly clean air.

 

_ “A total of 17 days.” _

 

Gorgeous trees encompassed the breathtaking area.

 

“That long?” 

 

“John?” For all of the beauty that surrounded them, it didn't seem right. 

 

But John was ignoring Harold because this needed to be spoken. 

 

_ “I wanted to exhaust every possibility of finding a cure.”  _

 

Cobalt skies beamed warmly above. But the Captain needed answers, not beauty.

 

“And?”

  
  


_ “I regret to inform you that I have been unsuccessful. I have not been able to develop a counteragent for the virus, and I have no other options to explore.” _

 

“What about keeping us in stasis aboard-- aboard Infinity?” Another name, the  _ right  _ name, screamed to be spoken. But it was slapped away from Harold before he could even hear it in his mind.

 

“Wait, Captain.” He paused, forcing his mind to pause, to recollect that which was supposed--

 

The slap came back, this time causing immense pain.

 

**_"That's not how_ ** **your** **_version is supposed to play out."_ **

 

****_What was that--?_

 

_ … _

 

Chief Medical Officer Sameen Shaw was not one happy camper when this fiasco of an away mission began.

 

She became even less of a happy camper when Finch and Reese had beamed aboard in a comatose state.

 

Fortunately, Nurse Fusco was not foolish enough to forget the gurneys this time. 

 

…

 

They were back to a empty room coated in darkness.

 

And that damn clock still ticked away, incessantly marking the time that didn't seem quite real in a place like this.

 

“Why must we suffer through this? Why the both of us, Finch?”

 

Although it was impossible, the darkness seemed to grow.

 

“I don't know, Captain. It seems almost illogical.”

 

A very small chuckle escaped at this, tangling itself up in the darkness.

 

And the tingling sensation of materialization came back.

 

…

 

Upon arriving to Sickbay, Shaw immediately took over. Within seconds, the two men were placed into beds and it took under a minute to get the appropriate diagnoses going.

 

Which was still far too long a time in Shaw’s opinion.

 

…

 

“Do you have any ideas--”

 

But they were already being snatched into another realm.

 

… 

 

“Their condition seems stable, ma'am.” Shaw glared at her head nurse, before focusing her glare on the two unconscious men before her.

 

“Just give them time. They'll manage to mess something up.”

 

…

 

“... The ship, out of danger?”

 

Screeching alarms. An invisible wall. Toxic fumes ripping Har--

 

_ No _ .

 

...

 

“I rest my case!” She snapped as the tricorders clashed with the alarms ringing from the monitors. More hyposprays were prepared even as she spoke.

 

“Ma'am, this is probably the Natirsmas trying to increase their influence--”

 

She shot Yeoman Tao, one of the Captain’s few sycophants, a frosty look for stating the obvious.

 

Tao immediately followed the unspoken orders. 

 

But, Fusco wasn’t under any such orders.

 

“They're not getting any better, ma'am. ” 

 

More potions, as Commander Finch would've disdainfully referred to the medicine as, were already being pumped into the comatosed men. 

 

“Really, Nurse?” She resisted the urge to growl again. “I hadn't noticed.”

 

...

 

_ This isn't our Sickbay _ .

 

It seemed like an older ship. Not by much, but by--

 

John was on the table.

 

John was  _ dying. _

 

“His heart’s failing! Nurse!” Shaw growled at Nurse Fusco, but it was already too late.

 

_ No-- _

 

…

 

“Will somebody tell me why the hell we haven't gotten enough distance from that damn planet!” It was not a question. It was an order to get the hell out of this nightmare.

 

…

 

_ Blinding white light.  _

 

_ And a figure, slowly materializing in the light.  _

 

“Who are you?”

 

“‘Who are you?’ That's the best you can do?” An irritated voice snipped, echoing throughout the endless space. “Not even so much as a ‘thank you’.” 

 

The light grew, almost laughing at this remark. The figure continued to materialize, but neither John nor Harold knew exactly what was going on.

 

And then a cold snap rang out.

 

But not before John caught one last snark:

 

“I find myself _deeply_ unimpressed with your incapabilities. Where's Jean Luc when you want him?”

 

…

 

“Ma'am, they're stabilizing!”

 

“We’re not out of the woods just yet, Nurse.”

 

...

 

Iciness. Blustering winds. 

 

_ Snow _ .

 

“Do you know where we are?”

 

It seemed to be another green patch of Earth, but this time surrounded by a 21st century Terran city -- judging from the landscape.

 

“I'd say New York City. Judging by the bridge, I wouldn't say Central Park, but maybe somewhere in the area?” 

 

“What do you know about New York City, Commander?”

 

“Very little, sir, considering my family came from the Midwest.” 

 

“Well, then.” John paused, looking at his Second in Command. “I'd say we’re either going to be gone to some other location in just a few seconds or,”

 

“Or, sir?”

 

They both paused, waiting for something to change. For that sickening twist of fate to reveal itself and then take them away to another cruel joke.

 

“Or I guess we find a way back to shelter. And soon.” The winds were dying down, but the snow was still falling.

 

In this distance, a tall figure glanced at the pair with feigned interest.

 

“I can't believe Jean-Luc didn't want my company,” Q muttered to himself, still absolutely shocked at the mere thought. “Furthermore, I can’t believe the Natiramas found interest in these pedantic dolts.” He glanced out into the snowy landscape before a sly smirk started to appear. 

 

“Guess I'll just have to entertain myself with these two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have more of a concept for this but, if anything, it'd be its own story instead of just a oneshot -- like the Desk Set.


	67. Fallen Warriors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had not realized the timing of this -- I had written this one up weeks ago.
> 
> That being said, only the first drabble in this group is actually crack related. 
> 
> The rest are, logically, not quite that case.

“Finch, look, it’s just--”

“ _Mr. Reese_. While I grasp the concept you are trying to convey, I cannot bring myself to garner no sympathy towards our fallen comrade.”

“But, Finch, it's just--”

“Mr. Reese, that wren was more than just a wren. He was a companion. A friend.” _Sniffle_. “And he has undoubtedly shown better understanding and camaraderie than a certain someone currently is.”

“Look, I’m sorry that something got to him, really. But we need to get back to today’s Number.”

Two more sniffles.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Reese, I’d like to just be left alone for a little bit. I’m sure your _weapons of destructions_ need tending to.”

“... Finch, please--”

“Mr. Reese, I really would like to be left alone.”

“Alright. I get.” Footsteps. A barely repressed sigh.

“It's okay, Mr. Darwin. I know that we can't always adapt to our situations.”

“... You named the bird after _Darwin_?”

“Mr. Reese, what did I say about your presence not being required _nor_ wanted?”

_._

He knew that they were being hunted down. That any connection to their old lives meant that there shouldn't be any public references to what used to be.

Still didn't stop him from visiting her grave.

_._

I know everyone thinks that I'm just a self-absorbed idiot and, yeah, that's true. Finchy and GodCrazy spend a lot more time rescuing me than anyone else probably.

But… when your reason for considering other people died sixteen years ago you forget to hold off from being a self-absorbed idiot.

_._

If emotions were truly capable for it, it would potentially confess to feeling a mixture of guilt, anger and relief.

Guilt for the lives it couldn't save.

Anger towards the lives that forced its creation.

And, relief that the probability of such an event has significantly decreased.

_._

  
It was always astonishing to walk through the world on a day like today. Watching the strangers who had consistently mourn this day now carry on in an oblivious fashion.

But not all had forgotten.

Some would remembered and recognized in a form of a token or outfit. A subtly patriotic tie, a velvet burgundy dress, an outfit solely comprised of black.

Others remembered in visits to grave sites, walking or driving past that particular marker of the past, stepping away from life to offer a moment of silence.

The city would always have the fear and grief absorbed into the pavement.

It would never forget. 


	68. The Shoot Tropes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, as much I love my Rinch -- and we’re definitely going to see more of it, make no mistake -- I think it’s time to give attention to another fabulous pairing. These are just a few moments -- AU and otherwise -- featuring some lovely ladies. Enjoy ;)

This was worse than she had anticipated.

 

When did she even start to care about such things? When had this actually become an important part of her life?

 

She walked forward, a bland poker face in place as she approached the other woman.

 

_ This is going to be horrible _ .

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

_ This is going to be beyond horrible.  _

 

She caught a gaze with her fri--- person-she tolerated-more-than-the-rest-of-society and mentally sighed.

 

“I have a wedding to go to.” The other woman cocked an eyebrow in surprise _.  _ “An ex of mine.”

 

It only took Root a mere three seconds to get the picture.

 

_._

 

_ Note to self, hacking on-site should be a last resort and not a necessity. _

 

A blur of shadows past by her. She caught a whiff of something she rather liked. 

 

Something she liked enough to stop in its track.

 

“ _ Move, _ ” The shadows hissed out, slamming into her as the sound of sirens and shouts howled in the background. 

 

So many cheesy pickup lines, such little time to spare. 

 

Especially considering they were both clearly on the wrong side of the law. 

 

“If you don’t move, I will shoot you. And not in the kneecaps.”

 

_ Note to self, consider a career change. But only switch to wherever this one works. _

 

_._

 

All she wanted was peace and quiet.

 

All she was getting was a sharp, persistent knock on the door.

 

“What do you want?” Came the not-so-concealed-snap.

 

“Are you Sameen Shaw?”  _ Yes, and whoever you are need to shut up and leave me alone. _

 

“Sorry, can’t do that.” Because apparently Shaw can’t actually keep her thoughts to herself.

 

_ Whoops _ .

 

“What do you want?” The snap came back, this time not even bothering to be polite.

 

“I think this belongs to you.” A letter was handed over, clearly addressed to Shaw.

 

….

 

The mistaken letters incidences were tolerable up until the 3rd time.

 

By that point, Shaw just wanted her to slide them under the door.

 

…

 

After two more weeks of knocking and being asked about letters that clearly belonged to her, Sameen gave up and called it a date. 

 

And, yes, she meant date,

 

Not day.

 

**_._**

 

“Miss Shaw? Are you alright?”

 

Shaw walked into the Library. For all intents and purposes, she looked perfectly normal.

 

She looked perfectly normal, except for the distinct lipstick that stained her mouth that is.

 

“I think I just got pickpocketed, what do you think?” She snipped at her employer, not in the mood to be mothered or any equivalent. Reese, of course, chose this moment to look up in confusion and barely refrain from silently snickering.

 

“Shaw, you got a little--”

 

“ _ Shut. Up.” _

 

_._

 

“But-- but I-- I thought--” Root laughed, stepping forth with a gun in hand.

 

“You thought that  _ she  _ was the bodyguard?” 

 

_._

  
  


“Hey, Sammy!”

 

“My name’s not--” 

 

“I can’t believe you left me in the restroom -- that’s not very BFF-y of you, you know!” 

 

Sameen didn’t understand why this woman was now proceeding to wrap her arm around hers, speaking in a ridiculous voice that was just begging to get punched.

 

But, this creep on her left -- who wasn’t worth her time or her violence, mind you -- was finally beginning to depart.

 

So, it wasn’t that much of an irritant.

 

… Until she realized that this stranger was still wrapped onto her even  _ after  _ that creep had left.

 

“You can call me ‘Rootilicious, Definitious’.”

 

_ Do not punch her in the face. Do not punch her in the face. Do not get turned-- nope, nope, nope, don’t even think about it. _

_ … _

 

It had taken them all by surprise when their phones all went off to the sound of  _ “Zulu, Oscar, Mike, Bravo, India, Echo, Sierra.”  _

 

Both John and Shaw translated the message without a second thought whilst Finch was the one lagging for once. Unfortunately, Fusco was detained at the precinct.

 

And Root?

 

Root had been in the shadow map when she got the call. She wasn’t tucked away in the station, she wasn’t anywhere near the precinct, and she was just a little too far away from safety when she realized what exactly was going on.

 

Fortunately, this was a warning -- an attempt to give them a chance to runaway.

 

Unfortunately, they only had a few hours. And that was if they were lucky.

 

_ “And, if you think you’re going to be some kind of a matyr, Root.”  _ Growled the comm-link.  _ “Then you’re an idiot that needs to think again.” _

 

_ _._ _

 

“The next time Finch wants to send us on another one of these mission,” Shaw started to mutter under her breath as she approached the room. “We take the dog.”

 

Root smiled, shaking her head ever so slightly at this as she slipped their hotel key into the lock. 

 

Apparently, Harry and the big lug had a similar moment where they had lived in a hotel room for one of their own cases. And though it was more like John was recovering from an injury than them staying in the room, there did seem to be something that happened that the two men had been refraining from mentioning at the time. 

 

Something that had them blushing and sending Root and Shaw off in their stead.

 

_“How have you found the accommodations to be, Miss Groves? Miss Shaw?”_ Was it her mind playing tricks on her or did it sound like Harry seemed a little concerned? And not his usual kind.  
  


_ “Yeah, how’s the place treating you, ladies?”  _ Okay, there was definitely a hint of something smug in John’s tone.

 

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the door was still unlocked and ready to be opened. So all it took was a hesitant Root swinging the door open to the room.

 

“Oh hell no.”

 

For even though none of the lights were on, it was clear that the space was smaller than even they had expected.

 

Furthermore…

 

“I guess there’ll be no problem figuring out the sleeping arrangements.”

 

Well, furthermore, there was only one queen-sized bed.


	69. And They All Lived (Sorta) Happily Ever After

_Once upon a time,_

_In a far off kingdom,_

_There lived a princess named Sameen--_

 

“I’ll show you ‘ _princess_ ’--”

 

_Once upon a time,_

_In a far off kingdom,_

_There lived a princess named Harold._

 

“Really, Mr. Reese? That's what you're going with?”

 

_Once. Upon. A. Time._

_In. A. Far. Off. Kingdom._

_There. Lived. A. Princess. Named. Harold._

_Who was mute and therefore unable to critique the narrator._

 

“Really, Mr. Ree-”

 

_One day a ferocious dragon named Decima blew fire into a nearby village in the kingdom of New York. Decima thought it was doing justice for the world, but it was being tricked by the evil dark wizard Greer who had an evil army of soldiers known as Samaritans._

 

“This is the big lug’s attempt at creativity?”

 

“Be quiet, Miss Groves.”

 

“I thought you were supposed to be mute, Finch.”

 

“...”

 

_Although Harold loved his kingdom very much, he could only work with objects and not people because he couldn’t speak. Fortunately, for Harold, he came across an attractive knight in a rugged dark suit of armor who was willing to join the cause. This knight was Sir Reese, one of the noblest and bravest of the land._

 

“And humblest, too.”

 

_Originally, Princess Harold and Sir Reese had been content to help the good people of their kingdom -- the kingdom of New York -- with small acts of kindness. But, upon hearing about the fire they knew they had to act in a much larger way._

 

_Fortunately, the princess and the knight had friends. A portly knight, Sir Lionel--_

 

“Who are you calling portly?”

 

“Would you prefer the term ‘husky’, Lionel?”

 

_A beautiful knightess that went by the name Joss Carter._

 

_And two vigilantes that were called Root and Shaw._

 

“What is this, a Western?”

 

_Root and Shaw had not originally started working together but after a few mix-ups started to tolerate each other’s company._

 

_But, moving onto the more important people--_

 

“The ‘more important’ people? I think we need to resort our priorities.”

 

**_Once upon a time,_ **

**_In a grand and noble kingdom,_ **

**_There lived two badass--_ **

 

“Language!”

 

**_Once upon a time,_ **

**_In a grand and noble kingdom,_ **

**_There lived two majestic Rulers,_ **

**_Queen Sameen and Empress Root._ **

 

“Empress’? That’s what you went with?”

 

**_They did not rule their kingdom alone._ **

**_They were accompanied by their knights Madame Carter and Sir Fusco. Furthermore,_ **

**_Their kingdom had a wizard: Harold Finch. Harold went by many names: Finch, Crowe, Phoenix, Wren, and Peacock amongst any other bird-related name._ **

 

“But, is she really wrong? _”_

 

**_There was also a court jester that went by John Reese,_ **

 

“...”

 

**_And though his nickname was also Wonderboy -- for those who admired him --_ **

 

**_“_ ** _Hey!”_

 

**_He was also known as Big Lug -- for those who didn't always care for him._ **

 

“I hardly think that is an appropriate nickname for a fairy tale.”

 

“Harry, unless you're willing to create your own fairytale, you can't really critique.”

 

“Very well then.”

 

_Once upon a time,_

_In a quadrant of space millions of light years away--_

 

“There were a bunch of badass people who slayed a bunch of space-dragons, won a big and bloody intergalactic war and had an orgy. The End.”

 

“Miss Shaw--”

 

“What's an orgy?” Henrietta, the six-year old Number they were charged with entertaining on this fine day, tilted her head curiously at Harold.

 

He could only stutter in response.

 

“We’ll tell you when you're older.” Fusco said, realizing that Shaw looked ready to tell today’s Number every last detail and then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any more requests? We’ve still got **seven** available :)
> 
> I’d really love to honor all of you who have been enjoying this with a little something if it’s possible. And, I’ll still take requests -- even after we get into the 70s.
> 
> Nevertheless, hope you’ve enjoyed and have a nice day!


	70. All Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lisagarland :D

Okay, so this time it wasn't really my fault.

 

See, I was the playboy distraction, the “high roller”. And, really, I did such a great job I deserve a standing ovation.

 

But do I get a standing ovation? Nope.

 

Honestly, what I've gotten tonight is all a little hazy. A little blurry even. I definitely remembering getting hit on, I definitely remembering being _awweeesssoommmeeee,_ and I definitely remember suddenly getting shoved into a chair, tied up, and made to sit like a duck. Right next to Finchy, of course.

 

And with no guardian assassin in sight.

 

Go figure.

 

But, now, we’ve moved on from that moment. Oh, yeah, the whole helpless nerd -- Finchy -- and currently preoccupied scammer -- that would be yours truly -- are not alone.

 

Now, we’re _all_ tied up.

 

“Lou, I had such a nice surprise the other day. A dealer told me that your luck had finally turned. You walked away $500 up. And that’s when I realized you’ve been skimming. Tens of thousands of dollars, right under my nose.”

 

Impressive, if you ask me. It’s one thing to scam Neo-Nazis or Nigerian scammers, but to scam a casino?

 

Of course, nobody’s asking me anything.

 

_“Listen --”_

 

“All you had to was lose, old man. So before you die, I’m gonna make you realize that you are a loser. And that’s all you’re ever gonna be.”

 

Okay, okay, we get that he’s a loser. Now can you please put the knife away?

 

“You like games, right, Lou?”

 

Okay, okay, now about that gun. You can definitely put _that_ away and-- and like not mess around with it like it’s a pair of die... why do I _always_ have such bad luck with words? And women for that matter?

 

“Roulette’s my favorite. It’s just you versus the wheel."

 

Okay, guys, he seems to be taking this all really seriously. Can we skip the scary threatening violent moment where I don’t know if I’m going to be rescued or not and go straight to the rescuing?

 

“You may skate by for a spin or two. But, in the end, the house always wins.”

 

Uhhhh, please don’t aim that at Mr. Tall, Dark, and Crazy. He actually could get me out of here.

 

“I’ll give you all the money back, just don’t-- just stop this. Just stop this.”

 

Please don’t point that thing at me, _please_ don’t point that thing at me.

 

“Oh, he’s safe. For now.”

 

Please don’t point that-- _god damn it!_

 

“Come on, man. You gotta save me.” This is so _NOT_ the time to be on vacation! “That’s your thing!”

 

And really, I mean it when I promise to be good and to not scam and to --

 

_Click._

 

Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. So I know it sounded like I was going to turn a new leaf. But since I didn’t finish promising it doesn’t really count.

 

“Not him either.” The gun turned.

 

“The odds are getting worse.”

 

Well, it’s out of my power to stop that bullet. So, I guess I just can’t do anything.

 

Tough luck, Finchy. Sorry to see you go, buddy.

 

“Sometimes your luck just runs out.”

 

You know, I hate to say this, Finchy, but I think you’re right. I mean, if Reese couldn’t save me -- when this is his job, after all --  then I’m sorry to say this, but--

 

_ARE YOU FRICKIN' KIDDING ME?_

 

The table slammed into Makris and he goes flying. And now the guy who seemed to be totally incapacitated and unable to save _me_ is fighting all of the odds and kicking everyone’s ass.

 

Now, believe me, I’m thankful that I no longer have a gun in my face, that ass is currently being kicked and that I'm getting rescued.

 

But it’s just so unfair how it took _Finchy_ getting aimed at to even get a reaction of him. Instead of, you know, the guy who was risking his -- and Finchy’s --- money and his _life_ trying to play a few games.

 

Oh! And the best part? Apparently the gun wasn’t even loaded! It had like no bullets! Nada! Zilch! Zero!

 

So, once again, _ARE YOU FRICKIN' KIDDING ME?_

 

“Hey dumbass,” I looked up to watch the old guy -- Moe? Joe? -- hold out the bullet. “I cheated.”

 

When did you get to be cool?

 

And, can I go home now?

 

_._

 

“It’s not like I’m still crying over Candi. But, it’s always the _same story,_ you know? You find a girl you like. She’s tall, she’s pretty, and it turns out someone paid her to handcuff you to a bed so they could murder you.” Seriously. This was becoming my life on a bi-weekly basis or something.

 

“Same old story.”

 

“I gotta learn to protect myself. Maybe protect other people like you guys.”

 

“That sounds like a great plan.” And with the way he put his hand on my shoulder and look me in the eyes, I knew he had every confidence in me.

 

“I’m turning over a new leaf, dude.” And, he was even smiling -- clearly sold on my plan to do justice-y things and stuff.

 

So why was he holding out his hand?

 

“What?”

 

He just kept looking at me, with that irritating do-goody, all knowing look.

 

But... I thought I had him! 

 

“Saving people costs money!” He walked away with the chip, which is once again _totally_ unfair! “You and Finchy of all people should know that!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you only requested the scene where Reese fights for Finch -- instead of Leon -- but I figured it'd be a fun little treat to put that other hilarious scene in this piece. Hope you've enjoyed, my dear!


	71. All You Need is Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a good cleaning service ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dancing dog :)

It was a harried day at the Carter residence. Having overslept her alarm -- calling it a rough week at the office is quite an understatement -- Joss was already at a disadvantage.

 

“Mom!”

 

“Taylor, give me a moment!”

 

“But, Mom!”

 

She walked into the living room with bleary eyes and a thin frown because they were definitely late.

 

“Taylor, if you--”

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Carter.”

 

“Mom, do you know this lady?”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“You did order our weekly maid service, Mrs. Carter?”

 

“Call me Detective.” She instinctively muttered as her eyes caught the logo of the van parked outside:

 

**_Wren Incorporated_ **

 

**_“We'll make your bird’s nest a proper home!”_ **

 

“Did I” _Or, rather, Finch,_ “-- already pay for this?” The woman tilted her head

 

“We’ve already received this month’s payment. That is, unless you’d prefer to cancel--”

 

“No, no. That’ll be quite alright.” Because now there was a vision of a tidy house coming to mind. Of a spotless and tidy kitchen complete with a refreshingly clean living space.

 

“C’mon, Taylor, or we’ll be late.”

 

“But we’re already an hour late. _And_ there was a meal prep package thing waiting for us on the doorstep.” How it wasn’t already stolen by some New Yorker, Joss didn’t know.

 

But she wasn’t about to question it.

 

…

 

He watched her as she sped into the precinct, only to discover her waiting pile had been mostly transferred to his desk. At the sight of her, he merely smiled at the clear relaxation that fluttered through her step.

 

“Our little bird sent the cleaning crew to you too?”

 

“And the meal prep?”

 

“Yup.”

 

And that was all they were going to say on the matter.

 

For now.

 

_._

 

“C’mon, Sam,” She crooned, definitely interested in milking this moment for all of its worth. “You wouldn't want to get our next Number sick and Harry did give you the day off.”

 

Shaw glared at her behind worn down eyes and a pale stubborn frown.

 

“Root,” She began to growl, but was interrupted by a cough. “I-- I'm--”

 

More coughs.

 

Immediately, a warm hand reached out to comfort her and she stiffened.

 

“Sameen.” It was a serious tone now entering the room. “Let me take care of you. _Please_.”

 

They stayed in that spot for a moment, hovering over hesitation and habit.

 

And, then, Shaw sighed. Allowed herself to fall into Root’s arm because this was more than just some common cold.

 

“Thank you.” Came the tender whisper as hands started rubbing themselves into her shoulders.

 

“Thank you.”

 

_._

   
“We know we’re not supposed to contact you, but something's wrong with Leila. And we think she needs you.”

 

“... We’ll be right there.”

…

Upon making it to the growing toddler, for it had been quite a little while since the pair had received her Number, they found she was refusing to be hugged let alone helped by her grandparents.

 

Rather, she was shivering in a corner, sobbing and repeatedly garbling out some equivalent of ‘Daddy’ in the process.

 

“We didn't think anything of it at first, but it's gotten serious and we think she needed you.”

 

Before Sammy Cruz had even started explaining this to Harold, John was already approaching the now one year old girl.

 

“Leila,” He whispered, having a sinking feeling he knew exactly what she was re-experiencing. “Can I pick you up?”

 

She seemed to nod at this, still shivering even in the far too warm room. John immediately scooped her up, gently rocking her back and forth.

 

At this, Harold hurried over.

 

“Is there anything I can do, John?” They were both oblivious to anything other than the girl. She was still shivering, but it was fading the more John held her. The tears were still there, but that was to be expected.

 

“I think you may need to hug us, Harold.” Not only would it provide more warmth to the toddler, it would also potentially provide comfort.

 

So, Harold didn't hesitate as he wrapped his arms around John and carefully enveloped the two of them.

 

They simply stood there, gently swaying back and forth, whispering sweet assurances to the little girl until she eventually calmed down and drifted off into sleep.

 

_._

 

“Guys! You wouldn’t let a poor guy _die_ would you?”

 

“Leon, it’s the flu.”

 

“You don’t know how bad the flu can be!” No response, not even a patronizing one. “ _Candi_ would’ve taken care of me!”

 

“Mr. Tao, I find that hard to believe.”

 

“But not--” _Double sneeze._ “--impossible!”

 

_._

 

Going to a fancy smancy boarding school could be a pain at times.

 

Going to a fancy smancy boarding school when you were going through the flu was just a nightmare.

 

“Miss Zhirova,” The school’s nurse only had a fraction of sympathy for her. But she could work with a fraction. “Would you like us to contact your guardian? I'm sure he would like to know that you seem to be under the weather.”

 

"Seem to be" meant nobody really believed her. But they were still asking her permission so, again, she could work with this. 

 

She didn't really know if Mr. Finch would or wouldn't care though she was leaning towards more him caring.

 

Nevertheless, for a stubbornly independent immigrant, she was feeling remarkably interested in depending on someone else to take care of her.

 

Childish? True.

 

But, wasn't she in fact a child? Also true.

 

“Sure.” She hoarsely responded, curling further into bed.

 

She had strong doubts that anyone would come, but it was worth something to check it out.

…

 

“Hey,” A familiar voice roused her from her sleep. But it was the unfamiliar tone that really woke her up.

 

She blinked a few times, making out a blurry figure. And her breath caught, causing a cough to bubble, as she properly recognized the person.

 

It wasn't Mr. Finch.

 

It was someone even better.

 

_._

 

After watching John wince was a little concerning. Watching that happen for the third time in one day was worrisome.

 

“Mr. Reese, did you obtain some sort of injury that you have yet to inform me about?”

 

John froze, his back to Harold

 

“What do you mean, Finch?”

 

_Oh, we're going to play_ that _game, are we?_

 

Harold proceeded to walk over to his employee. John stiffened as he approached, but found his head tilting as Finch proceeded to hobble around him.

 

“Finch?”

 

“Since you're currently disinclined to give me any information, I must proceed with a physical examination.”

 

But there was no blood seeping through his suit, no clear bruises or cuts. John allowed his friend to carefully inspect, but there was nothing worthy of note. At one point, Harold had a half a mind to actually brush his hand over John to see where exactly the pain was.

 

“It’s just a paper cut,” Came the mumbled rasp.

 

“Pardon?” John merely stared at him, an intense mixture of weariness, frustration and something else. But he held up the hand in question and finally elaborated.

 

“A piece of paper cut me earlier. Please, don't worry about it.”

 

It just figures that after all of the bullets, bruises, and stabbings that a paper cut would bring the Man in the Suit such grief.

 

“Oh that simply won't do.” Harold said, immediately cradling the hand. John’s eyes widened at the sudden and unusual attention he was receiving.

 

“Really, it’s just--”

 

“Any injury still brings pain. Whether it is pain we could potentially shrug off at a moment’s notice or suffering that seeps into our core, we should still treat it. And,” This next part was spoken with a hint of a blush. “We should treat it in any fashion we can.”

 

It was an off-hand remark. But it was also the statement that told John that his hand wasn’t going to be the only thing cradled tonight.

 

_._

 

The shadowy room descended into the feelings of lighthearted and conflicting tension, the open air of oppression, and the thinly veiled threats of ruin that always trailed after Elias.

 

Problem is, the Elias that managed to get himself into the room today was not at his best. So off was he that there was a delectable bowl of soup with his name spelled out -- courtesy of Anthony and the noodle alphabet -- that was waiting for him after today’s business transactions.

 

He currently wasn’t a leader who could spot every flaw and rip someone -- metaphorically, of course -- to shreds. He currently was someone who was barely refraining from sinking into the soothing metallic taste of a spotless table. This is someone who any criminal worth mentioning would probably take down after only thirty minutes of obstinacy.

 

Now, while that may be the case, the crime lord was still not at a genuine disadvantage.

 

Why?

 

Because Carl was dealing with idiots today. 

 

_._

 

Today’s lesson: don’t shoot while sneezing. Not only does it screw up your aim, it scares the hell out of everyone.

 

…

 

Follow-up lesson: Do not “mother-hen” Sameen Shaw at any point, no matter how good your intentions are. For when it is your turn to be under the weather she will relish in making you suf-- _helping_ _you recover_ in the most efficient manner possible. Especially if you are the individual referred to as “Root”.

 

_._

 

“You okay, Zoe?” She unwillingly sniffled before shooting John a glare that was normally intimidating as hell.

 

Emphasis on “normally”.

 

“Fine, John.” And, if her voice seemed unusually hoarse, he didn't say a word. Which was fine by her because fixers don’t get sick. Fixers did their jobs and moved on. Fixers don't help others and they don't get help.

 

…

_Why does this surprise me that John's not really a fixer?_

 

She really should’ve known that a package of medicine, teas, and other home remedies would’ve arrived on her doorstep only hours after he asked.

 

_._

 

“Finch, do you consider it cannibalism to eat chicken noodle soup?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You know, because of all of the bird-related last names.”

 

"I'll need you to elaborate, Mr. Reese."

 

"What I'm trying to say is, do you think it's cannibalism if you have chicken noodle soup because of all of your bird-related last names?"

 

“I hardly consider that to be a relevant factor, Mr. Reese.”

 

“So, then, you’ll take care of yourself by having some? Instead of being a reclusive hermit who suffers being under the weather in silence?”

 

“...”

 

“...”

 

“...”

 

“I did make it myself.”

 

_._

 

It was dark, his head was pounding, and he reacted too damn late.

 

So, Lionel doesn’t feel any pity for himself as he hits the cement in pain. He only feels irritation about his stupidity, anger for not being able to handle today as he should’ve. And the overwhelming burden of never being able to do things right.

 

“Stay still, Lionel. You’ve been shot.” _A-duh, Wonderboy. Now can you please focus on the important stuff and get the bastard?_

 

“We already did, Detective.” _I thought I kept that to myself._ _And when the hell did Glasses get here? Did I go out of it or something?_

 

“Fusco?”  _Now this can't be happening._

 

Carter should not be here right now. She couldn’t be kneeling by his side, and she couldn’t be shaking her bemused smile in faint disbelief.

 

“It’s like you have a death wish or something.” She softly spoke, right as the world began to multiply and spin. How it was doing both at the same time still escaped Lionel, but he really didn’t feel like he could figure all that out right now.

 

“The paramedics are already on their way, Detective. Just hold on for a few more moments.”

 

But, this was just another reminder of another failure. Really, just another night in the life of the cop.

 

And he was sure, as he passed out, that he really didn’t deserve to go through another one of these and actually make it out alive.

 

“Sorry, but you can’t join me just yet, partner.” Another whisper, this one fanning out into the darkness that he welcomed at last.

 

_Too late, partner. I think I just did._

 

…

 

... Go figure it wasn’t fatal.

 

It was just the combined factors of being feverish, in pain already, and then getting shot that did him in for the night.

 

But, here's the weird part: when he finally woke up, it wasn’t to a smug Reese or a mothering Finch.

 

It was to a concerned Shaw.

 

A concerned Shaw who was staring him down next to an unusually quiet Cocoa Puffs.

 

And, weirder still, they weren’t alone: Robocop and Four-eyes were passed out on one another in the other chairs. And they even managed to bring in the dog.

 

How they managed to get everyone into the room escaped him. How they were _all_ in the room together was something he didn’t even want to figure out.

 

And, yes, Fusco meant all when he said it.

 

Because Joss was standing in the doorway, arms crossed with _that_ smile.

 

“Told you you couldn’t join me just yet.”

 

_._

 

To sweet, gentle Bear life typically included delicious meals, glorious affection from his pack, and a welcoming home.

 

Sometimes, life included coming across beings that reeked of bad intentions -- things that smelled not so great and didn’t really taste all that great either.

 

Rarely did life include feeling absolutely drained. Wanting to curl up, no matter where. Not really having desire for anything.

 

And, oddly enough, it is actually these moments that are some of his better ones.

 

The moments where kind hands would softly rub his sore spots.

 

Where even more affection, consideration attention, was given.

 

Where he’d occasionally enjoy more than half of the meal of the Omega.

 

So, because Bear was still soothed by his pack, it didn’t matter whether life was being typical or not: he almost always felt content with the world.

 

Except for those few moments when his Alpha would not even share a hint of a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’ve enjoyed this, my dear!
> 
> Although you had officially only requested H/C, I had been inspired by your comment about a weekly maid service for Carter & Fusco.
> 
> Furthermore, I realized that more than there’s potential H/C for many of the characters -- not just Team Machine.
> 
> Nevertheless... Keep an eye out for another request of yours being written out ;)


	72. Remember, Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tipsylex :)

_October 30th, 2012_

 

“Did you ever Trick or Treat, Finch?”

 

In John’s opinion, that was such a harmless question that the odds were really in his favor for actually getting a response.

 

“I've always had more of an interest in Guy Fawkes Day than Halloween, Mr. Reese.”

 

Well, he did get an answer.

 

Even if it wasn't one he understood.

 

“Guy Fawkes Day, Finch?”

 

“‘Remember, remember, the fifth of November’?”

 

At John’s blank stare, Harold quirked his face in an upward fashion -- a faint beam of contentment emerging that only came from sharing knowledge.

 

“‘Remember, remember,

The fifth of November.

The Gunpowder treason and plot;

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.”

 

John nodded to himself, and then looked back at Harold.

 

“Still don’t get it.”

 

The recluse managed to simultaneously chuckle and sigh at this before settling for a smile.

 

“Perhaps, I should explain it a little further?”

 

_._

 

_November 3rd, 2012_

 

“Penny for the old guy, Finch?”

 

“I do believe I give you much more than on a monthly basis, Mr. Reese.”

 

_._

 

_November 4th, 2012_

 

“Finch, are you sure--”

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese, I'm quite sure we cannot set fire to a straw man in order to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day. Especially, _not_ in the Library.”

 

“So--”

 

“And, no, that does not mean that we will not be setting fire to a straw man _anywhere_ within the confines of the city of New York.”

_._

 

_November 5th, 2012_

 

“I really don't see why you went to all of this trouble, Mr. Reese.”

 

Because they were now standing in a campground that was definitely quite a few kilometers outside of New York City.

 

“You did say you had more of an interest in this than in Halloween, Harold.” _And you willingly contributed that little tidbit of knowledge. Which calls for a celebration in my book._

 

“Even so, we’re hardly British citizens.” The dry retort eventually sounded, but there was no real complaint.

 

And there wouldn’t be, so long as the bonfire was reasonably contained.

 

"Finch, would you believe that I actually forgot to bring the fireworks?"

 

"Probably for the best, Mr. Reese. Try not to forget next time!"

 

The words escaped before he could reel the thoughts in. But, it was true: this had been an enjoyable experience and it was just starting.

 

Harold was quite sure that if they managed to make it to the next year, so would this little moment.

 

_._

 

_November 5th, 2013_

 

“Oh, very funny, Mr. Reese.”

 

On an impulse, Harold decided to check into the library a little earlier than normal the next day.

 

Upon entering the station, he spotted something he hadn't expected to see:

 

A particular mask lying right on his console.

 

His phone buzzed, causing him to glance down in curiosity.

 

_~  Bonfire tonight?_

 

He honestly was not feeling entirely opposed to the idea. Getting away from the chaos that was beginning to surround them, giving himself real time and solitude to properly contemplate Root’s predicament, it almost seemed like a good idea.

 

But the fight with HR was clearly growing. Even taking an hour out of the city would be an enormous risk let alone spending as much time as they did last year.

 

Another buzz. Another text message.

 

_~ The fresh air might do us some good, Harold._

 

He paused in his response, but eventually settled.

 

_Let’s see how it all goes today. ~_

 

It was not a promise to commit. Rather, it was a promise to consider.

  
…

 

_November 5th, 2014_

 

This wasn’t the time to go out anywhere, and it certainly wasn’t a time to revert to yearly habits.

 

“Penny for the old guy, Shaw?” He still asked, withholding from smirking at Harold’s subtle double-take.

 

Shaw raised an eyebrow, taking in both his remark and Finch’s reaction.

 

“No.”

 

She decided she didn’t want to know.

 

...

 

_November 5th, 2015_

 

When they arrived at the familiar campsite, they weren’t alone.

 

“Would someone care to explain why we brought along _him_?”

 

By him, Shaw was referring to the straw “man” that had been thrown into the back of the trunk.

 

“Think of it as a catharsis, Sameen.” For even though the meaning of this British tradition didn’t quite connect with the woman, she’d probably appreciate being able to burn something large.

 

“Yeah, whatever.” She said, pulling out a chocolate bar from one of her pockets. “I still think Halloween’s cooler.”

 

“I still don’t get it.” Fusco said and Root merely shrugged her shoulders, curiously watching the two other men step out of the car and into the space.

 

Harold merely laughed at this, sharing a pleased look with John because they were now both remembering a familiar moment.

 

The others just looked on in confusion, content to let them exist in their own moment.

 

"Now, Detective," Harold said, eventually forcing himself to focus on someone other than John. "Can you watch Bear whilst Sameen and John set up the fire?"

 

"Sure thing, Finch."

 

"We're gonna be burning stuff, Harold?"

 

"And setting off fireworks because I didn't forget them this time."

 

"Excellent, Mr. Reese. But, let's make sure not to frighten Bear."

 

You'd think explosions of any kind would be a turn-off for John or Sameen. But he was quite pleased with the set-up and there was suddenly a fire glowing in Shaw's eyes. A fire they'd usually come to associate when she was close to being intimate with Root.

 

But, enough of that. It was time to focus on why they were here.

 

Harold had honestly almost allowed this celebration to almost slip by this year. But once John reminded him of some of the reasons why he should consider celebrating... he was far more willing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope I did this prompt justice and that you've enjoyed this, my dear!


	73. A Packful of Hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dancing_dog :)

They had gone out for that drink more days ago and Harold still -- much to his immense frustration -- hadn't quite managed to let go of the fact that he had been kidnapped. That he had been drugged, that he had been helpless. And that if John hadn't made it, he would probably either still be drugged or just be dead.

 

Honestly, he didn't know what was worse: always jumping at every unexpected moment and consistently being far more than just paranoid, or experiencing life in a drugged state while being forced to go along with someone else’s plan.

 

“Finch,” Currently, he still couldn't decide.

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

 

The man could only sigh at the clear trepidation in his employer’s voice. He personally was okay with Harold not being totally okay with everything. What was frustrating was that the man expected himself to recover in an instant.

 

He wanted to offer some sort of relief, something that would give the man a chance to relax.

 

But he knew that if the roles reversed, he wouldn't want anything of the kind.

 

“I'll be heading out. Want anything from the store?”

 

“No, thank you, Mr. Reese.”

 

John nodded at this, understanding and yet still unable to ignore his own frustration.

 

But, he said he would be heading out and so that's what he’d be doing.

 

…

 

After the door closed, Harold gave a sigh himself before allowing his eyes to close for a moment.

 

But even those two seconds of not being able to see was scary enough to prompt his eyes to remain open. He breathing quickened, as he double checked the room to make sure there was no one else there.

 

Nope. Only him and that sitting dog who had been staring at him for the last five minutes.

 

“Is there some sort of problem?” He uncharacteristically snapped, suddenly craving an outlet for all of his emotions. But taking his anger out on Bear would only serve to make the dog unhappy.

 

And it definitely wasn't Bear he was upset with.

 

_But, let's not think about who exactly you're upset with._

 

“My apologies, Bear.” He said, getting up and directing all of his energy to the Belgian Malinois. The dog just continued to look at him, keeping a close eye on the situation.

 

“It's not your fault that I'm infuriated with myself.” _For it was my foolish incapabilities, my incapabilities, that got us all into this mess._

 

The dog let out a protest at this, finding some sort of problem with his statement. Whether that protest was with the statement itself or merely the emotion behind it still escaped Harold. But, he found he didn’t care.

 

Another release of air came at that realization, and he decided to take another uncharacteristic set of actions:

 

He sat down next to the dog and reached out a hand to pet him.

 

“I suppose you're not a terrible addition to our little team. Even if you have atrociously expensive taste.”

 

…

 

John came back to the library to a highly unusual sight, but not completely unexpected, sight:

 

Harold’s suit was in desperate need of a cleaning, not only because he was sitting on the floor but also because the tears that had been shed.

 

Now, what was the most unusual part?

 

His friend, who had protested Bear’s existence since the beginning, was in the midst of hugging said dog.

 

“I'll come back later.” He quietly whispered, purposefully so soft that the crying man wouldn't hear him and therefore stop the emotions from escaping.

 

And, it’s true John would come back to make sure they were really okay. He’d just wait a little longer before making an official entrance.

 

After all, he had bugged the Library after Harold’s return -- just to be on the safe side. So, upon hearing the man finally break down about two hours ago, John decided to give him space for a little bit.

 

But only a little bit.

 

After all, there was a possibility that if he played his cards correctly, he might also get a hug out of this.

 

And, let’s face it, even with his bugging the room and his being in the immediate vicinity John was still overly protective about Harold right now.

 

_._

 

“I didn't know you had a German Shepherd!”

 

“Bear’s actually a Belgian Malinois.” Shaw lightly reprimanded as Gen proceeded to pet the dog. The girl weakly smiled at this, thoroughly enjoying getting out of school for the day and getting to spend it in the company of her favorite person.

 

“Does he give good hugs?” Root smiled at this question, having been waiting in the car for them. She leaned back from the shotgun seat, joining Gen in petting Bear.

 

“He’s a great hugger.” Root whispered conspiratorially as Shaw loudly sighed, now knowing what was eventually going to happen by the end of the day.

 

_._

 

“Okay, group hug, everyone. I know it's weird as hell, but we need it.” Weirder still was that it was Fusco making the request.

 

Everyone just the man a puzzled look, one that he returned by rolling his eyes.

 

“We just saved the world for like the 7th time, everyone almost died at some point in the last day, and I'm tired. Let's get a move on people.”

 

The detective himself held out his arms, content to wait for only so long before he would start snapping at everyone again.

 

Carter was the first to move, nudging John along the way. John proceeded to grab Harold whilst Root felt inspired to first give a hug to only Sameen before moving her over into the group.

 

It was awkward as hell at first, but these were awkward as hell people.

 

“Glasses, what's Dutch for ‘join the damn hug’?”

 

But, fortunately, Bear was trained well enough to only require a calling of his name before he proceeded to “join the damn hug”.

 

“If anyone ever brings this up--”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we know.” Fusco said. “Sudden and painful death or slow torture. Depends on whether or not you ate anything recently."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you got a kick out of this :) I remember a pack hug being requested, but I figured I'd add a little more to it <3
> 
> Still taking prompts of all kinds! Especially now that all official requests have been written up/posted, as far as I know :)   
>    
> Also! I added **two more characters** to the H/C oneshots. So, if you're a fan of Miss Zhirova or Leila, you might want to double back and check the new material out ;)


	74. I Believe I Can Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this next piece, I have three disclaimers:
> 
> 1\. The prompt I received for this was given by a friend who hasn’t read any of Relevance and she hasn't heard of POI. So, take this one with a grain of salt.
> 
> 2\. This is probably the crackiest story I’ve written for this collection.
> 
> 3\. This is most definitely an AU. 
> 
> Also, I’ll be taking any requests for this up until the 78th oneshot has been posted. Nevertheless, if you’ve got a request or a thought and we’re at 79 or higher, definitely let me know.

The bedroom was quiet, serene even. Sunlight snuck in through the curtains, the air carried a kindness not often found in subway stations, and it was an overall pleasant atmosphere.

 

But, of course, this is a little story delving into the _Person of Interest_ fandom. And, so, said pleasantness can only stay around for so long before awkward misfortune and horrible timing shoves it out of the room.

 

Presently, in today’s story, that misfortunately timed concept would be arriving in the form of a small alarm clock. This alarm clock was given out of the facetious kindness of a dear friend’s heart. It was a gift easily handed over to its next victim.

 

Now, you may be saying, “Hold on a minute, it’s just an alarm clock. Why the melodramatic word choice, why the ‘doom and gloom’ language and why break the fourth wall?”.

 

Well, in response to the first question, this alarm clock believed it could fly. No, scratch that belief from your memory for this alarm clock _knew_ without a trace of doubt that it could fly. In fact, this alarm clock had to ascend into the sky in order to complete its job. And that means it's not a normal alarm clock, which means its new territory for alarm-clock owners to be dealing with, especially if they don't actually know they have this clock -- complete with batteries -- in their possession.

 

Now, in regards to the second question, would you believe I’m breaking the fourth wall merely because I find it hilarious when other writers do?

 

... No?

 

... Really? I assure you it’s not because I’ve been kidnapped by Shaw and was told to either write about this or an explicit Shoot scene. That has nothing to do with this, nothing whatsoever.

 

Anyway, anyway, let’s get back to the topic at hand and focus on the story of the Brave Little Alarm Clock. Who was about to make an enemy out of someone who never cared for mornings.

 

Now, some may say that it cannot be true, that an alarm simply cannot fly. Others would laugh before proceeding to get a “real” alarm clock -- one that would simply scream a cacophony of bells and whistles in their ear to no avail. And, finally, there is a smaller percentage of people that would simply utter some sort of an expletive before allowing their phone to serve as an alarm clock in its place.

 

So, all in all, not everyone really cares about alarm clocks, especially this alarm clock.

 

But, the real question is, does this alarm clock care about everyone else?

 

Not really, no.

 

Okay. So, if this alarm clock doesn’t care about what others think of it, then what exactly _does_ this alarm clock care about?

 

Well, ladies and gentlemen and all of those who identify in another fashion, this alarm clock only cares about its job. Specifically, this alarm clock only cares about its purpose.

 

And, today, it would make its purpose known in approximately one minute and thirteen seconds.

 

**…**

 

_“Weeeeeeeeee_!” If this alarm clock could speak, this is what it would’ve gaily shouted. Unfortunately, its could only translate its voice via the obnoxiously grating sounds that reverberated throughout the room.

 

Now, instead of happily cheering from the nightstand it had been placed, it detached its spinning propellor into the atmosphere. By doing so, this alarm clock would then force whoever was awake to get out of bed, grab the propellor, and force it back into the alarm clock. Only then would this alarm clock allow itself to be silenced.

 

Because by doing so, this alarm clock would complete its purpose: it would have made sure that whoever owned it -- or, in this, whoever had received surreptitiously it -- was now wide awake and ready to hate the day.

 

 

“Harold, what the _hell_ is that?” Immediately, the ex-assassin straightened up attention, scanning the premises for the enemy of his morning. Upon spotting the alarm clock, he instantaneously put two and two together.

 

But, John wasn’t about to make his lover get out of bed. No, John was the self-sacrificing type. Which, in this case, translates into him hurling himself out of bed, resisting the urge to shoot the target on the spot, grabbing the damn propellor, and inserting it far more harshly into the clock than need be.

 

Harold groggily stirred, not at all fazed or even properly awoken by this alarm clock. “Come back to bed, John.”

 

Clearly, the man was totally oblivious to the battle that just commenced.

 

Which meant that the alarm clock had failed in its job, its life purpose.

 

Did John care that the alarm clock failed?

 

No. Not really.

 

Did he care about finding out how exactly they obtained this little _surprise_?

 

Why, yes. Yes, he did.

 

“Harold,” He sweetly whispered whilst simultaneously glaring bullets into the alarm clock. After all, metaphorical violence wouldn’t be actually hurting anything. And, Harold wouldn’t have to know if he wanted to set his arsenal on the damn thing.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Did anyone give you an alarm clock, recently? Lionel, perhaps?”

 

“Hmm?” He mumbled again before readjusting himself underneath the cozy covers. “Oh, yes, I think someone did provide me with a new alarm clock.”

 

“Who provided you with a new alarm clock, Harold?” But he seemed to be falling back into a sleepier mindset, one that took away his ability to verbalize coherent statements. John looked up from the clock. “Harold?”

 

“It was Sameen, actually. She said she had the perfect solution when I told her it’s been becoming difficult to get up in the morning.”

 

_Shaw. Why am I not surprised?_

 

Well, in this case, revenge could easily be arranged.

 

John slipped back into bed, allowing himself a few moments to enjoy the fact that Harold finally looked relaxed. In retrospect, it seemed prudent to thank the alarm clock -- if only for providing a moment where he got to absorb the mostly undisturbed serenity.

 

But, make no mistake. Once this little moment was eventually shoved out of the way, revenge would _definitely_ be in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, for those who need a video of the exact experience, look up either “UFO flying alarm clock” or “UFO alarm clock thing”.
> 
> Either way, hope you got a kick out of this -- I certainly did enjoy writing it xD. Have a nice day!


	75. The Rule of Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a request from someone who’s been struggling lately. It’s heavy, it incorporates an amazing quotation and it’s short. I hope you all enjoy.

_ This is taking too much energy.  _

 

Shuddering exhalations trembled through the air and pain happily dug itself into shivering lungs.

 

_ This shouldn’t be taking… so much. _

 

After years of playing this game, the bullets stopped slamming into reality and the threats faded into silence. The rush of adrenaline still coursed through exhausted veins, alertness and paranoia still dictated that each forward stumble would result in a cascade of tension sliding down the spine.

 

Inevitably, they fell. But twitching hands forced the body to rise, even if it were only an inch at a time.

 

“Why do you persist in this  _ idiotic _ struggle?”

 

“Because,” A strained voice spoke, grabbing onto an obstinate beam of determination. “Because, the rule of law, it must be held high. And, if it falls, you pick it up and hold it even higher.” An involuntary gasp, a convulsion of the body, halted the speaker.

 

But they kept going. 

 

“For all of society, all civilized people, will have nothing to shelter them if it is destroyed.”


	76. Why Me? Why is it Always Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This next prompt is another crack prompt given by a wonderfully sassy person (and the title is from a hilarious TV show)

It is on incredibly rare occasions that individual such as Carl Elias has to endure the frustrations that came with traveling via airports.

 

It is on even rarer occasions that an individual such as Carl Elias has to interact with someone who doesn’t know how to shut up.

 

“And _then_ I found out she had been hired by Nigerian scammers to seduce me so they could kill me!” That unusually whiny voice had refused to leave his ear for the last thirty minutes.

 

And they hadn't even begun to board yet.

 

“How… interesting.” Elias remarked sarcastically. But, this stranger -- who not only was in the same boarding group as Carl but who would also be  _sitting_ in the seat next to him -- was not paying the slightest ounce of attention.

 

And, Anthony was certainly not helping. The man had an incessant twinkle in his eye and had only jokingly whispered that he could take care of this issue if need be.

 

But, would he actually get rid of this obnoxious stranger for Elias?

 

No. No, he wouldn't.

 

“Hey, you wanna hear a joke?”

 

“No--”

 

“Pete and Repete were on a boat. Pete got off, who was left?” Elias stiffened, already knowing where this would be leading.

 

“Repete.” Anthony not-so-helpfully supplied, knowing exactly what he was doing.

 

“Pete and Repete were on a boat…”

 

“Boarding for those with disabilities, military, and children under the age of two will now begin.”

 

... This was going to be a long flight.


	77. Keep Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, "Keep Calm and Don't Punch Your Enemies in the Face (Even if They May or May Not Deserve It)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another disclaimer: This next one was given to me by a sleep-deprived person who has some rightful frustrations. I do hope both you and her find it potentially cathartic if not at least enjoyable. Once again, this toys with the boundaries of the crack realm.
> 
> Oh, and you may notice a repeat OC in the future. Just something to keep in mind ;)

This was one of the more conflicting cases.

 

But, not for the typical reasons.

 

“If you think for even _one moment_ that I will simply allow you to harass not only my students, but also my _daughters_ \--”

 

Shaw appeared at his elbow, popcorn in hand.

 

“So, is she the victim or the perpetrator?”

 

“Still haven’t figured that out yet, Shaw.”

 

They stood in the shadows of the auditorium, watching the two figures interact. And, by interact, that really meant watch the two women barely refrain from shouting at full voice.

 

See, Lynn Tholden, mother of Elaine and Claire Tholden and a professor of this fine university, was not having a good day. Deane Garlottis, another professor of this esteemed establishment and the one currently not-quite-shouting, was also not having the best of days.

 

Unfortunately, it was difficult to ascertain who was really having the bad day. And, by that, what we really mean to say is that it was difficult to guess who’d be willing to step into the perpetrator role and who should be considered the official victim.

 

Because, in this current moment, nobody seemed like a victim. In fact, almost both professors looked like they were quite willing to suddenly pull out some sort of weapon at a moment’s notice.

 

Furthermore, it was becoming more and more apparent by the moment that, for all of Garlottis’s apparent niceties and charisma, she had been shooting out borderline abusive comments towards students since the start of the term.

 

And, while Tholden never really seemed to be a practitioner of verbal abuse, she was by no means helpless or a “victim”.

 

_“Mr. Reese, would you care to explain exactly what’s going on? It sounds as though--”_

 

“One moment, Finch.” For Garlottis looked like she was about to take things to a physical level, causing John to take a step out of the shadows.

 

But Tholden beat her to the punch.

 

Literally.

 

Shaw smirked, nodding approvingly. John almost did the same, although there was one factor holding him back: he could feel Harold’s disapproval radiate so strongly it was as though the man was standing right next to them.

 

_“Mr. Reese, would you care to explain why it sounds as though someone has just been soundly punched? Moreover, would you care to explain how this even occurred, considering both you and Miss Shaw have been in the immediate vicinity this entire time?”_

 

The two vigilantes stood in silence. One held a tense silence that implied that speaking would result in unspeakable pain. The other carried a tone of apathetic sardonicism, the type of silence that implied that she was currently cackling on the inside with no sympathy whatsoever.

 

_… Why do **I** have to explain when something goes wrong? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :,) We finally made it over the 50K word count -- something I never thought I would be able to do and another reason to smile today.
> 
> Also, I must add that every time I receive notice of a new review, a new kudo, or what have you, I've been grinning and giggling like a fool :D <3
> 
> So, thank you all for sticking along the journey though it’s by no means over. Nevertheless, a lot of the steps I've taken to keep going have definitely been due to your support <3
> 
> Have a lovely day!


	78. A Bird By Any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one, I received three lovely words from a lovely friend :)

“Mr. Reese?”

 

The man limped into the Library, his body having clearly been put through the ringer this morning and his suit most certainly beyond ruined.

 

“It’s me, Finch.” Harold had been sitting at his desk, not even turning around until John was only a few feet away. Upon further examination, the reclusive billionaire’s nose twitched at an unusual smell -- _perfume?_ \-- coming from the man.

 

“Mr. Reese?” He repeated, swiveling his chair around to see--

 

A typically meticulous suit drenched in perspiration, perfume, and potential beauty products. A nervous smile -- something that was also quite abnormal for the vigilante -- accompanied by hesitatingly determined eyes. And gorgeous bouquet of roses clutched in not-quite-sweaty and not-quite-trembling set hands.

 

He paused to properly process the sight before looking up at John, confusion still clearly spelled out on his face.

 

“Honestly? I figured it’d be appropriate to celebrate Valentine’s Day at some point in our lives. And roses wouldn't interest Bear or Shaw as much as chocolates would.” The ex-assassin said dryly, holding out the bouquet as he explained.

 

"... And the perfume, Mr. Reese?" John shrugged sheepishly, though his eyes darkened as though he'd recently fought through an arduous battle.

 

"Apparently, everyone wants flowers today."

 

"... I see." 

 

Harold just continued to stare, still not quite comprehending exactly what was going on or what the man was trying to accomplish.

 

John smiled and faintly chuckled at this. He had a feeling that -- just like many other times in this relationship -- actions would probably speak louder than words.

 

Fortunately, the genius soon became fully cognizant of John's intentions. Moreover, upon understanding the intentions -- and agreeing it was quite necessary to give them all an outstanding amount of consideration, Harold scrupulously placed the flowers next to the computer.

 

After that, then he proceeded to inform John that -- as intelligent as the man may be -- he would require some further elaboration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word prompts to include were: Rose, Honesty, Dog. Technically, I played around with all of them and didn't use those exact forms, but I know my friend would approve nevertheless :)
> 
> Hope you’ve enjoyed this and that you have a nice day!


	79. The Scarlet Strings of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This request is based off of a Japanese belief that we are connected via invisible red strings that connects our pinkies to others. This belief is also reinforced by the thought that there’s a vein that runs from our hearts to that finger -- and that that vein is the "string" that connects us to others. 
> 
> On a similar note, these strings may become tangled or temporarily lost, but they will never break. 
> 
> Now, this prompt was given to me by someone who doesn’t necessarily think it applies to “soulmates” but believes that there are multiple connections to multiple people who we are fated to encounter in life. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

 He had long stopped feeling the thriving energy that ran throughout his body at the sound of her voice. He no longer felt drawn to anyone, no longer felt the motivation that drove his hands to experience as much of any connection as he could.

 

But it wasn’t as though he no longer felt a connection to her. It was just that that connection had become deadened, numbed by guilt and lost in his desire to drink.

 

So, he felt nothing pull him out of his stupor even as the train car door opened and the newcomers stepped in.

 

…

 

She had smiled upon walking in, but it wasn’t that that pulled his attention. Nor had it been her opening remarks.

 

“You know, you could have done me a favor and let those land a couple more punches. Question for you: looking at that tape, I’d say you spent some time in the service.”

 

He really wasn’t interested in playing the interrogation game today. Or giving answers for that matter.

 

But underneath the indifference, underneath the reeking layers of mistrust and depression that had seeped into him, he felt something.

 

It wasn’t just the fact that she seemed to be a wiser than normal person. He didn’t even know if it was because she actually seemed to be a good cop.

 

But the more this Detective rattled on, the more he had this inkling of a feeling that she was going to have quite an impact on him.

 

Whether he liked it or not.

 

…

 

“Do I owe you money? Cause I’m, uh, running a little short at the moment.”

 

They both knew that, even as he approached the man.

 

“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Reese.”

 

That knowledge didn’t impress him, but it does draw his attention for the second time in the last few hours.

 

“That’s the name you prefer, isn’t it? I know you’ve had several.” He turns, this man who has stolen John’s attention. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell anybody about you.”

 

And it's those words that bring a sense of anger to the ex-assassin. Because, he feels something inside of him that wants to agree to this -- wants to agree to this new connection he's made. Yet, there's another part of him who sees this stranger as another form of the manipulative individuals he worked for.

 

“You don’t _know_ anything about me.”

 

“I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese. I know about the work you used to do for the government. I know about the doubts you came to have about that work. I know that the government, along with everybody else, thinks you’re dead.”

 

“I know you spent the last couple of months trying to drink yourself to death.” He pauses, looking away and breaking the eye contact. But this stranger couldn’t quite stop the uncomfortable tension that kept bringing John closer and closer to the man.

 

It's as though there were a string that they were both tied to -- a string that magically tightens every couple of seconds to bring them together. “I know you’re contemplating more efficient ways to do it. So you see, knowledge is not my problem.”

 

“ _Doing_ something with that knowledge, that’s where you’d come in.” The eye contact comes back, reinforcing whatever it was that has been pulling them together. Whatever it was that would keep the men intertwined from here on out.

 

“And you can call me Mr. Finch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I only focused on some of John's connections.
> 
> But, if you feel inspired to run with this idea with any of the characters, by all means go for it :) 
> 
> [Just let me know so I can go fangirl about it with the woman who gave me the prompt <3]


	80. That Place Just Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may recognize this song -- it's another favorite of mine. The version I'll be using is the one I grew up hearing as a child. 
> 
> So, if it seems a little different than what you know by heart, that would be because this is the version that my mom would sing to me. And, she is the one who I would like to dedicate this piece to.
> 
> Have a wonderful day! :)

 

The library was peaceful when John had left it.

 

When he returned, it was _breathtaking_.

 

“C’mon, my dear, let it out. It's okay,” Leila apparently didn't care all that much for being asked to calm down, judging from the unhappy shrieks that echoed sharply into the library.

 

But, that wasn't what John found beautiful.

 

_“'Tis a gift to be simple,”_

 

The two were standing in the middle of a spot where sun always managed to filter in warming hazy rays.

 

_‘''Tis a gift to be free,”_

 

Gentle arms were swaying a child back and forth, firmly convinced that this calming motion would work wonders.

 

_‘''Tis a gift to come round, where we ought to be.”_

 

Harold had a lovely voice. It wasn’t one that was trained for professional singing but it still managed to get the point across. And Leila seemed to be of the same opinion, judging from the serene attitude that had started to settle over her.

 

_“And when we find ourselves_

_In that place just right,”_

_It will be in the valley of love and delight.”_

 

John paused from the shadows, not wanting to break this unusually tender moment.

 

He never realized how much having a family was something that he craved until that moment.

 

He had always felt a twinge of regret upon seeing a child surrounding by loving parents. But, he never really witnessed “parenting” like this so up close and personal.

 

He wanted to commit this moment to memory.

 

_“When true simplicity is gained,”_

 

Hints of drool began to sink into a pristine suit. 

 

He just kept rocking her back and forth, letting his singing securely blanket her.

 

_“To bow and to bend_

_We shall not be afraid.”_

 

The shrieks had long since stopped. But the soothing lyrics continued to twirl softly around the room.

 

_“To turn and to turn,_

_It will be in our delight.”_

 

Harold smiled, taking his time as he gently continued on in his simple gift: the assurance of comfort and love.

 

_“For by turning,_

_Turning,_

_We’ll come round right.”_

 

John stopped for a good moment, before stepping into the light and greeting the abnormally relaxed man with a surprised smile. The man who normally would flinch and hide behind paranoid remarks, the recluse who would omit and avoid any hint of intimacy.

 

And the dear friend who was currently content this one time to just let things be.

 

And when she unconsciously drooled onto the floor before curling into his arms, they both quietly, _softly_ , laughed. Chuckles gently rang out and meshed together in the space, dancing along every crevice and lightening up every burden.

 

It was entrancing to say the least.


	81. It's That Time

“You alright, Shaw?” She still wasn't getting up and hadn't for the last twenty minutes. No, Shaw was far more content to glare holes into the floor from a comfortable position on the couch.

 

“Do I look okay, Reese?” He refrained from responding, eager to withdraw before she threw something at him. Because that's the type of mood she appeared to be in today -- the mood of “if you irritate me, I'll throw something and it will hurt. And, if you get in my way, you die.”

 

Oddly enough, this wasn't an atypical moment from what John could remember. In fact, Shaw seemed to be acting this way around this time last month.

 

But there didn't really seem to be any sort of connection between the type of cases as he far as he could remember. So that ruled out work.

 

He took another quick look at his colleague, trying to see if he could glean anything from a subtle glass.

 

She seemed to be curled in on herself. Pain looked like it was going on somewhere close to her abdomen. But, Shaw hadn't been in a recent fight as far as John knew.

 

So, what's the connection between this month and last month--

 

_Oh._

 

And suddenly her attitude made a hell of a lot more sense.

 

Well, if _that_ was in fact the cause behind her discomfort, John was completely okay with just letting her stay on the couch.

 

 

_._

 

“Miss Hendricks, I know it's quite unusual to receive another call from us. But it seems that your last piece carried a bit violence than we’re used to seeing. There's no need for panic, we'll still take it. I'm just a little concerned, dear: are you going through a rough patch?”

 

Grace paused, not really knowing how to respond because she couldn't think of anything that would be considered a “rough patch”.

 

And then she remembered exactly when she put together that last piece.

 

“Oh, no, no rough patch, Mrs. Grechen. It was just _that_ time of the month.” She didn't know if she overstepped the boundaries of freelance artistry by dropping a personal detail like that.

 

But Mrs. Grechen seemed to be taking it well in stride, all things considering.

 

“Ahh,” A knowing tone responded in lieu of the previously concerned one. “Well, I'm glad everything is alright.”

 

But, seeing as how she was currently curled up in bed dealing with another agonizing case of cramps, Grace was inclined to disagree that everything was not quite alright.

 

"Thank you, Mrs. Grechen. Have a pleasant day!"

 

"You too, dear!"

 

_... We'll see about that._

 

 

_._

 

Fusco took a few steps back as Joss mercilessly slammed their murderer into the car door before calming handcuffing him. After the bastard was taken care of, she noticed her partner’s apprehension. This caused her to immediately swiveled around so as to properly face him, a taut, a superficial smile fixed upon her lips.

 

He merely gave her another look of concern mixed with trepidation.

 

She shrugged unapologetically.

 

“He punched me earlier.”

 

_And even though I'm sure there's more to it than that,_ _I'm also sure I want to live._

 

 

_._

 

“Zoe, I need a favor.”

 

“John, why don’t you do yourself a favor and call me later,"

 

“But--”

 

“You wouldn't want to get between me and my chocolate now would you?”

 

_._

 

“Harry! I need you to run some errands for me.”

 

The recluse entered her bedroom hidden away in the station, quite puzzled by this request.

 

See, Harold had just finished running some errands for Root only a few days ago. So, why she would require him to go out again -- when she knew their money had to be rationed far more meticulously these days -- escaped him.

 

“I can, Miss Groves,” She smiled, handing him a new list. “ _If_ you do believe these errands to be ones of the utmost importance.”

 

“It is. I trust you can be discreet, Harry?”

 

“Of course.” He said as he gave the list the slightest of glances.

 

He promptly froze upon a second look.

 

“Oh, I see.”

 

Her smile widened, as she nudged him out the door.

 

“Thanks, buddy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's quite ironic and hilarious, but my time of the month actually started today >-> xD
> 
> (Now, why I couldn't write about Team Machine being surprised with 5 million dollars still escapes me...)


	82. Falling Down the Bunny Hole

The man slithered forward, a sharklike grin on his face as he clutched the material in his hands. The other man in the room simultaneously took a hesitant step back, hands twitching to shield himself out of instinct.

 

“M-- Mr. Reese,” The typically collected tone was stifled and substituted for a far more trembling one. “I hardly think this charade is necessary. I'm sure there are far more appropriate disguises.”

 

“Oh, but, Harold,” The rasp held a whiff of humor as he took another step forward. “I think it’s vital that we honor this  _ tradition _ .”

 

“Wha-- whatever gave you that idea, Mr. Reese? I believe it was you yourself who said you’d be content never to see that particular ‘monstrosity’ again.”

 

“But, Harold,” He held up the bunny suit with planned ease, his smugness evident. “This one’s in your size.”

 

"But, Mr. Reese, I'm rather ill-suited to wear that sort of costume."

 

This argument wasn't stopping the vigilante in the slightest. And, it was at this point that Harold realized he no had anywhere to go -- he was essentially pinned to the wall without John even having to move a finger.

 

This only brought a delightful smirk -- well, delightful for anyone other than Harold -- forth from the ex-assassin. That and the sound of a plastic zipper sliding down an atrocious costume.

 

“Well, _Harold_ , you did help me change last time. It only seems fair that I repay the favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the Bunny series.... for now ;)


	83. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, Loyalty to an Unknown Cause

He really should have known that ever since he got roped in HR’s business that it wasn't going to be sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. It was so naive to think it was going to be like they were one happy family who just so happened to be bribing half the city, to think that his “friends” were people that actually cared about him.

 

Unfortunately, once he accepted the money he accepted those manipulating bastards. And, he accepted their disgusting way of life.

 

Oh, he had no issues when it came to protecting one of their own. But after years of murdering other and surrounding himself with vice, he began to forget exactly who he was. Who were the real victims and who were the reals scumbags.

 

It became difficult to untangle himself from HR’s zip ties of deceit and it became hard to ignore their willingness to murder people “just because”. After a few years of justifying the muck that stained his hands, it all becomes a numbing loyalty to a cause that he knows in his core isn’t right.

 

Though, honestly, it’s hard to see what else there can be in life when deception and crime choke you on a daily basis.

 

And, after a few years, it becomes hard to want to give a damn. To care about precious moral codes that still grimace every time he goes against the very law he swore to upheld.

 

But apparently John Reese didn't care about Fusco’s self pity. Nor did he give a damn about struggling to find the high road.

 

Not only that, Reese did see potential in Lionel to be his personal lapdog, his inside man for HR. The vigilante was almost content to dangle the idea of a high moral code in exchange for the cop’s not-so-guarded secrets. Furthermore, he seemed to take great pleasure in reminding Lionel that he would always be judged for being a disgustingly dirty cop -- loyal, yes, but does that change his crimes? -- no matter what he tried to.

 

That judgment in itself made it difficult to want to believe that there really was going to be a change at some point. That judgment made it seemed like there would never come a day where he’d just been seen as something more than a tainted stereotype.

 

But, honestly?

 

It was that same judgment that it was possible just made it all the easier to kneel.

 

_._

 

“You hear that?”

 

“I don't hear nothing.”

 

“That's right. No sirens, no bullhorns. No one’s coming to save you. No one cares. That guy -- the one who tells you things -- he used you and then let you rot like a piece of garbage. Might as well tell me who it is. At least you'll have the satisfaction of repaying the favor.”

 

He knew how this could go. One wrong move and he could end up dead before he even knew it.

 

But, Lionel couldn't really bring himself to care.

 

Honestly? He only had one real regret if this were to be the day that he was going to kick the bucket.

 

“You think you're the first person to put a gun to my head?” Yeah, there's a tremble to his voice. There’s tears of denial that beg to form themselves, clenched fists that want to grip onto the idea that maybe help is on its way.

 

“No. But I will be the last.”

 

That does it. Brings him closer to acceptance.

 

“Yeah, maybe you will.” Now, he can't help but steady himself in that numbing loyalty. Detached from reality only because he was firmly attached to what he felt was a good cause.

 

“You ever been shot?” Well, if this is going to be it, he’s not going in silence. “Craziest things go through your mind -- glad I put on clean underwear, hid that stash of porn.” And then that regret reared its ugly head for another moment.

 

“Sorry that your son had to find out that his old man was a dirty cop.”

 

Because when his son finds that out, Lee’s heart and pride was going to broken. He’s going to lose faith in authorities and he might end up following his old man’s shadow -- something Fusco never wanted to see happen.

 

Unfortunately, Lionel can’t stop this bastard from shooting him.

 

All he could do is just talk.

 

“Then you realize you're gonna die.” He lets that sit, lets that settle into the choking darkness that surrounded them. “You try to go down doing something good.”

 

Lionel's ready to die.

 

Hasn't accepted it, but he's ready. Doesn’t want to leave Lee, but maybe his kid is better off this way.

 

Either way, he’s not going down without some sort of a fight.

 

“You wouldn't know about that, would you, you dirty sack?”

 

_“Kneel.”_ When the detective doesn't move, he's pushed to the mud. The gun safety’s is taken out of the picture, eyes are shut because he may be ready but he still hasn't accepted that nothing changed in the end. He didn’t make some sort of a difference. There’s nothing he was able to do that would leave him with a sense of “Okay. I can leave now.”

 

When the bullet flies, he doesn't move.

 

When he hears a body fall beside him, that's when eyes open in surprise.

 

When he finds out he's not done with HR, that this whole moment meant nothing, he almost wishes he had died.

 

“My hands are dirty, always will be, huh?”

 

Reese turns around and looks at him, really looks looks at him. And for one brief moment, Fusco sees something there that almost gives him hope.

 

But it’s gone and the moment comes to a halt because it’s time to put his hands back into that dirt he will _always_ hate.


	84. The Little Grey Cells of Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I was going to do something related to the novel 1984, especially since this is the 84th oneshot. But, not only does the show delve into the 1984 concept (and I don’t want to go into dark material this week), I've been hit by the fact that one of my all-time favorite shows is leaving Netflix in a few days and I wanted to do a tribute.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a sunny day that greeted Whitehaven Mansions. The weather was amiable, a light breeze drifted lazily through the streets, and all was calm.

 

And, even though it was a sight so very pleasant and a morning so inordinately peaceful, all of that was about shifted ever so slightly. 

 

For the world had never noticed that someone was missing.

 

…

 

“Mr. Poirot, you have a visitor.” 

 

“Thank you, Miss Lemon. Will you please tell it to them that I will be there momentarily?”

 

The Belgian detective had been at his desk, taking in the day with an air of boredom until his secretary walked in. For at the sight of Miss Lemon, who knew not to disturb unless it was a matter of the utmost urgency, the little grey cells already began to put themselves to work.

 

…

 

Upon entering the room, Poirot observed many details about the man sitting down. For one, he was the type of person to work with his hands but he still dressed in rather nice suits. For another, he was clearly trained to resist emotions -- but, still that training does not hide the fact from Poirot that this man is incredibly worried.

 

That in itself piques Poirot’s curiosity even more so.

 

“Bonjour, Monsieur--?” He patiently waited for the man to respond, a cordial smile resting on his face.

 

“Reese. John Reese.” He nodded at this, noting the American accent and the stiffness in which the man responded.

 

“Monsieur Reese, would you be so kind as to explain to Poirot why exactly you came to visit Poirot today?” 

 

If Reese was at all taken aback by the detective’s habit of addressing himself in the third-person, he didn't show it. 

 

“Well, Mr. Poirot,” The Belgian was taken aback by Reese’s flawless pronunciation: he tended to find English speakers to -- what is the phrase? -- have their tongue caught by a cat when it came to his name.

 

“My friend’s missing and I need your help.” 

 

Normally, kidnappings held little appeal for the detective. That's not to say that he didn't care for them, but that is to say that his specialty was solving murders and potentially preventing them. 

 

And, this indeed would normally be a case that he would pass along to his dear friend Inspector Japp to hand over to someone else at the Yard. 

 

But, there was an American militant sitting in his flat who knew of Poirot. This was a serious individual of a stoic nature who didn't strike the Belgian as someone who wasted time. 

 

And, of course, the little grey cells were craving a bit of stimulation. 

 

So, he allowed himself to gracefully waddle over and primly sit down. He let go of his smile and focused solely on the puzzle at hand.

 

“Tell to me everything you know, Monsieur Reese. And, please, do not let a single detail escape,  _ mon ami _ .”


	85. Take Your Time

The streets of New York were as peaceful as they were going to get: the street chatter was at the bare minimum, cars were honking with disinterest, sirens only passed by every 30 minutes or so, and music was only playing -- not blasting -- from passing vehicles.

 

All in all, it seemed like a calm day in the city.

 

That still didn't stop a very tired man from driving through the city with an almost frenzied purpose.

 

“Come on, come on!” He angrily muttered to himself, frustrated with the fact that his exhaustion was finally catching up with him. Granted, it wasn't just exhaustion from overworking and taxing stress: old age was beginning to creep into his life, much to his immense irritation.

 

Nevertheless, Harold Finch could be quite obstinate when he wanted to be.

 

Now it is true that had someone told him twenty years ago what he’d be doing today, he would have given you a dismissive scoff and would have left it at that: Clearly his precious rules would never allow him to actually _meddle_ with time and space.

 

Yet, that was exactly what he was doing today.

 

He stopped the car with forced ease, stepped out as calmly as one could when adrenaline was craving to take over, and hid himself in the shadows of plain sight. Fortunately, it was only his younger self that soon limped out of that particular building only a few minutes later.

 

Harold proceeded to enter the Federal Reserve, knowing full well that he had no need to be alarmed. No harm would come to him in this moment. And, for all of the thoughts that had tormented his brain for the last two decades about the terrifying possibilities about this moment, it really felt as though the man had all the time in the world.

 

That still didn’t mean he had an excuse to lollygag.

 

So, the time traveler hobbled purposefully down familiar hallways he had hoped never to see again. Old injuries tensed up as his uneven steps picked up pace.. Dark memories and horrifying potentials began to constrict tired lungs, holding his pulse hostage to their whims.

 

And, before he knew it it was time to re-enter the space of a very familiar vault.

 

Said fault was currently opening to reveal a frightened-beyond-belief John Reese who seemed close to letting his fears of reality become his tears.

 

But then an aged face calmly greeted one that wasn’t quite so withered and a smile greeted an incredulously slacked jaw.

 

“So, I see I'm not too late.”

 

“Harold--”

 

But there would be time for conversation and explanation. Right now, they needed to save the day without the vigilante having the urge to sacrifice his life in the heat of this moment.

 

After all, contrary to popular belief, they were _not_ running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tribute to BTTF. It only seemed fitting since this was #85. Also, this was a fun little way to make aallll of the time references while I still can (*ba dum tss!*)
> 
> Also, I’ve noticed over the last thirty pieces or so that each section (the 60s, the 70s, the 80s, etc.) seem to have an unspoken theme. And, judging from the titles alone I’d say the 80s theme seems to be “Time”.


	86. Would You Believe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reference, another tribute :3 
> 
> Would you believe I've only got a few more fusion ideas left? ;) :)
> 
> Have a nice day!

The office was unusually overcrowded, with five persons in the room. Max, 99, the Chief were all accustomed to the lack of space. But the newcomers, a tall man dressed in a nice suit and a shorter woman dressed in all black stood uncomfortably near the exit. 

 

“Agents 86 and 99, meet Agents 122 and 110.” Maxwell Smart, a man who didn't seem to be all that smart, nodded at this and kept nodding for a good minute before he finally asked a question.

 

“Uh, Chief, why exactly do we need to work with other agents? 99 and I can handle ourselves perfectly well.”

 

“Well, Max, it seems that KAOS is working with a new organization -- SAM.”

 

“‘SAM’, sir?”

 

“Yes, 99, SAM. We haven’t figured out exactly what it’s short for but when we do you’ll be the first to know. Anyway, on their last mission, Agents 122 and 110 ran into some of SAM’s agents.”

 

“That’s great to know, Chief! But... where do we come into this?”

 

“As I was trying to say, Max, we’ve realized that SAM and KAOS are working together on a top secret mission. 122 and 110 were close to figuring it out, but now they’re going to recognized by SAM agents. So, we’ll be combining forces to find out what’s going on and stop it.”

 

“That’s great news, Chief! Who’s teaming up with them?”

 

This time, the Chief was certainly not the only one who groaned in frustration at the oblivious remark.


	87. Harold, I Take It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a childhood AU concept, and a cute little way of introducing a character that we’ve missed a lot of in this series :)

 Harold didn't understand why they had to visit relatives on the East Coast. It wasn't as though his relatives were bad people.

 

They just never really talked to him.

 

Aunt Jessica lives in Maine, and she’s probably his favorite Aunt. And his cousin Gary and his wife were cool, they were living in North Carolina.

 

But, it was the New York crowd that bothered Harold. Well, not his Uncle Martin, who always loved to show Harold his ongoing science projects. Nor was he bothered by Aunt El, who always loved to show him her event plans.

 

No, if Harold was going to be honest, he just really didn't like Aunt Kathy. Or, rather, he didn't like Aunt Kathy’s sons.

 

And, guess who he got to visit today?

 

“Harry!”

 

“I've asked you not to call me that before, Eric.”

 

“That's nice.” _Here we go_. “So, what's it like living in the middle of nowhere?”

 

It was always the same, whenever they visited. Eric and Jake would take him outside, ask questions they didn't really care about, and find a reason to be verbally abusive while the adults chatted about in the house.

 

And if he gave them reason, they'd rough him up a bit too.

 

He’d tried to tell Dad before, but Aunt Kathy caught him first. She warned him about making stuff up. That he didn't really know what he was talking about about because he was just a child.

 

“Well, I think you're stupid” _Has it been that long? We’re already getting to this part?_

 

It used to bother Harold, this routine and the fact that his family acted like this towards him.

 

Now he just used it as a reason to hide behind technology. It was simple really: machines were much easier to work with. And even if there were problems, at least they didn't bully you.

 

He closed his eyes, waiting.

 

“Are you afraid, _Harry_?” At this, the children started to call out. He always forgot that Eric and Jake had friends.

 

Harold didn't really have anyone, other than Dad.

 

His teachers tended to either appreciate his intelligence or feel threatened by it. Some of his fellow peers thought he was weird for always reading. And others thought he was a robot in disguise because he didn't like what they did.

 

But, Harold didn't really mind. In this new story he was reading, a story that he couldn't help but connect to in some ways, it was said that everyone essentially walks in the dark. That everyone is--

 

“ _Leave him alone_.”

 

That was not Jake’s voice. And it definitely wasn’t Eric’s, Liliana's, or Tom’s.

 

In fact, he’d never heard a voice quite like the one before him.

 

Harold opened his eyes.

 

Another boy, probably around their age, had stepped in front of him. This new boy calmly, _willingly,_  shielded him from routine.

 

“Who are you? His boyfriend?” They were supposed to be too young to be making such jokes, but apparently Eric didn't know that. Then again, Eric was eleven and the oldest of the group. He probably went out of his way to do things that he wasn’t supposed to do.

 

Either way, Harold winced at that remark, feeling rather uncomfortable with such a term being thrown around.

 

“No. I’m his friend.” A surprised double-take came from this, as Harold had never had someone his age readily say such a thing.

 

_And, now, he’s not going to want to be my friend._ Harold thought glumly to himself. Because the bullies were getting ready.

 

Eric stepped forward, and Jake stepped back. Jake was more verbal in his torments, but Eric didn't see any problem getting physical.

 

Harold’s apparent frown widened at this, knowing what would normally come next was going to be a lot worse this time.

 

“Please, don't hurt him, Eric.” Harold could handle a punch or two. And this strange boy -- _friend_? -- probably didn't know what he was getting himself into.

 

“Don't worry,” _How was he not worried? How could this stranger speak so calmly?_ “It's going to be okay.”

 

Eric smirked. At his full height he was taller than the stranger by quite a few inches.

 

But Harold’s friend didn't back down.

 

“So, Harold’s _boyfriend_.” The other kids laughed and Harold shrunk even further within himself, not knowing what to do. “Are _you_ scared?”

 

The boy matched his stare as Eric leaned in. Harold shut his eyes close again, not wanting to witness this.

 

A girlish yelp escaped into the air and Harold looked up, shocked.

 

The boy had stepped on Eric’s toes, without breaking his gaze, and was proceeding to poke Eric in the eyes before shoving him into Jake.

 

“I can't see! I can't see!”

 

“Get off me, you idiot!”

 

In only a minute the routine was broken.

 

The boy turned around, reaching out to Harold with a hand and an appropriately boyish grin.

 

“Hi! The name’s Nathan.” The grin widened. “Harold, I take it?”

 

Before Harold could properly think to respond, he was interrupted. “In any case, we should probably get going before they remember they’ve got their own friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been meaning to properly bring in Nathan for quite some time (about 76 pieces or so), and so I hope you’ve enjoyed my little tribute to their friendship. I do remember that they officially meet at MIT, but this is a shamelessly fluffy AU concept :)
> 
> Also, did anyone catch the little reference to a conversation from “Super”?
> 
> And, **finally,** if there are any more AU concepts you’d like me to give a shoutout to, leave a comment below. You’ll see why in a day or two ;)


	88. Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: Ever since I wrote “All Out”, I put this together and have been waiting ever since to post this. 
> 
> Also, last call for AU requests!
> 
> Nevertheless, as always, enjoy and have a nice day!

“You all right?” He had come in late, understandably so. Propriety followed his every step, caution rigidly traced his shadow. “I heard what Lou said to you.”

 

The reclusive billionaire drew further into his walls as he came to a stop.

 

“Oh.” An unfamiliar tone snuck in at the sound of this. “You were listening?”

 

“Always.” He followed his friend as they stepped further into the space.

 

“You did what you had to do to keep his safe, Harold.” Though, clearly, the man’s body language  showed that he didn’t quite agree with John’s statement. “Lou doesn’t know that. But I do.”

 

And that did count for something. Or else Finch wouldn’t have conceded the point with the tilting of his head, even as frown still contorted his lips.

 

“And if I were to return to my old life, it would eventually cost Grace hers.”

 

“Some of us don’t get to grow old with the one we love.” He kept his gaze firmly glued to Harold. “You ask me, Lou’s the luckiest guy I know.”

 

The man took in John’s statement, before dipping his head to the side.

 

“If you ask me,” Harold spoke, eyes slowly drifting up to John. “I don’t think Lou’s the luckiest guy I know.”

 

John blinked, taken aback, giving Harold another moment to elaborate.  

 

“I _will_ get to grow old with her from afar. And, still,”

 

A ghost of a smile was finally making its way back to the living.

 

“And, still, I’ll also be able to grow old together with you.” But, this was Harold's speaking. So, even as John’s eyes began to swim in gratitude, an eyebrow quirks and a cynical remark is about to make its presence known.

 

But then he looks at John, really looks at the man, and sees the optimistic glow that seldom finds a home within the vigilante.

 

And, so, the cynicism folds out of this game. It leaves the table and lets gratuity take over for a round.

 

"So, in response to your statement, I wish to be so bold as to say that I think  _I_  amthe 'luckiest guy I know'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a different note:
> 
> For those who were affected in any way by what just happened in Vegas or any horrifying event in recent times, I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry that that happened. And that I hope that those you love and care about made it out okay.


	89. Alternatives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this is not the last we’re going to see of AU concepts, I'm definitely invested in putting as many concepts into this piece as I can.
> 
> Also! There are a few shoutouts to fantastic works of fanfiction from the marvelous sites. So, if you recognize something, it's either canon or canon material that I probably fangirled over.
> 
> [And if you want to see the order of concepts, it's listed in the second A/N for this piece]

“Mr. Reese, was it?” The man in question sighed, knowing exactly where this was going because that was the kind of voice he’d heard oh so many times over the course of his life.

 

“Look, I can’t tell you why I was drawn to you. I can’t even tell you why I know when people are in danger.” He turned his attention to the woman of interest, one individual in the swarming city. “But that woman is facing some sort of danger. And there has to be a reason -- some sort of a purpose -- behind my being brought to you.”

 

The stranger looked at John coldly, obviously disinterested. Then he made to walk past the supposed psychic, to continue on to work at IFT. At this unspoken decision, John sighed before stepping in front of him once again.

 

“Look, I’ve been getting these vis-- these hunches for years now. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But, I guess I needed a partner or I wouldn’t have been brought to you.” He paused, seeing a form of curiosity begin to trickle down into the man’s aura. “So, what do you think?”

 

But the curiosity was rapidly muffled by trained paranoia.

 

“I think you’re a crazed individual who’s probably attempting to stalk his ex-wife or someone with whom you’ve crossed paths with once. And, regardless of whatever the case may, I think I’m not interested, Mr. Reese.”

 

It was at this point that Finch firmly pushed his way past the reclusive psychic and continued walking on.

 

_._

 

“Finch, are we sure that she's the victim in this?” Harold sighed, sending a reproving glare over at John.

 

“Just because Mrs. Fletcher has been in the vicinity of several murders--”

 

“‘Several’ is putting it nicely.”

 

_Glare._

 

“As I was saying,” _Before I was so rudely interrupted._ “Although Mrs. Fletcher has been in the vicinity of several murders over the last few decades, she has proven herself to be quite the sleuth. And _not_ the killer.”

 

_._

 

“Miss Shaw,” _Here we go._ “I’m not sure why you seem to be fixated on the corner of the room when I would rather your attention be given to today’s Number.”

 

Shaw tore her glance away from the woman winking in the corner and tried to focus on Finch.

 

_“Wouldn’t it be nice if he would just shut up for once?”_

 

The comment was, of course, only heard by Sameen. Finch kept on rattling off details, oblivious to the woman who was clearly snuggling into the wall and giving Shaw quite a feisty look.

 

She noncommittally grunted, not only agreeing with this woman but also trying to show that she was paying attention.

 

Because, she was paying attention.

 

It just so happened to be that she was paying attention to this ghost -- _poltergeist?_ \-- who had been determinedly to tease and flirt with her ever since she walked into the library.

 

The woman stepped forward, her translucent hands trailing through the air as she slinked over to Finch.

 

_“You know,”_ She smugly stated with a mischievous glance directed to none other than Sameen. _“I could make him shut up.”_

 

The ex-assassin merely crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow in faint curiosity.

 

“Now, if you notice here,” Her employer stood up, starting to head over to the board.

 

And promptly proceeded to trip into John before Shaw could even process what happened.

 

As the two proceeded to untangle themselves and profusely stammer, Root could only laugh before she ran her fingers over Harold’s shoulders. This movement forced an instinctive shudder out of the introvert who unconsciously proceeded to bury himself further into the vigilante’s unexpected embrace.

 

_“Told you so,”_ She said over the undignified stutters emanating from Harold, sending another wink Shaw’s way.

 

_“Now, you ready to have some_ **_real_ ** _fun?”_

 

_._

 

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain this to me again, Roberts.” She said, crossing her arms in immense frustration.

 

Her partner in vigilantism awkwardly shrugged, trying not to awaken the baby in his arms.

 

“Sorry, Cruz, but the poor kid was left out in the damn--”

 

“ _Language._ ”

 

“-- left out in the cold in the middle of one of our coldest winters. Was I supposed to just let him die of pneumonia or something?”

 

“We don’t help babies, Roberts. We help strangers who don’t even know it.” And still, holding this child, this little boy, in her arms was sparking a faint memory.

 

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Leila Cruz rolled her eyes in immense irritation and glared at the man because Daniel was technically correct.

 

“You know what I mean.” But, instead of placing the baby elsewhere, she continued to hold it while maintaining her glare.

 

After she continued to hold the boy for half a minute, her partner decided to risk his life once again by asking just one more question.

 

“So, we’re keeping him for now?”

 

_._

 

He stepped into the train station with haste, scanning all the crowds for any form of his friend.

 

But chaos had already descended on the place and strangers were already past scurrying away, the sounds of gunshots long over.

 

Harold had already been whisked away by a train. He was long gone.

 

So, John had to keep searching.

 

Had to keep searching and slashing and burning through the world bit by bit.

 

_._

 

“Harry, meet Harry.” Root smirked at this, as the two men cautiously step forward and subtly observed each other.

 

“I heard you know a thing or two about wars?”

 

“And that you're considered to be something of a wizard?”

 

_._

 

We definitely made for a really weird sight. One that even _I_ couldn’t believe.

 

See, I -- the majestically good looking hero of today’s story -- saved Finchy’s life. It wasn’t Mr. Insane, or Detective Gag-Order, or the crazy chicks whose names I can’t remember.

 

It was _me_.

 

And, now the mutt and GodCrazy were in absolute awe of me.

  
“Are you alright, Harold?”

Okay, maybe absolute awe was overdoing it a little.

 

“I’m quite alright, John, really.”

 

… Okay, so what if everyone was too busy having eyesex -- except for Detective Gag-order because, nope, I don’t even want to think about _that_ \-- to pay me any attention? Do I look like I care?

 

“I’m gonna get paid for this right?”

 

Oh, so, _now_ I’m getting attention.

 

“I did just lay my life on the line for him, you know! A little ‘thank you’ would be nice is all I’m saying, man!”

 

_._

 

“Detective,” The gruff voice seemed unusually high pitched and held an odd form of irritation. “I do not understand how this little… switch came back to be, but I hope for your sake that it is comes to an immediate end.”

 

“You’re telling me,” The normally smooth voice of Carl Elias seemed far more grumpier than normal -- and held far more of a New York accent as well. “I don’t want to have to explain to Glasses and Wonderboy that I’ve somehow become the Godfather.”

 

“Please, Detective Fusco,” The voice of Lionel seemed rather affronted at this. “I personally have no intention or desire to explain to Anthony exactly how we seemed to have technically switched bodies.”

 

_._

 

_“You built the Machine?”_

 

It's what she was used to hearing, that tone of incredulous disbelief. That patronizing question that unwittingly stumbled into sexist material.

 

A _woman_ , after all, would probably _never_ be able to build such a complex system.

 

Not only was it an inordinately outdated belief, it was also now invalid.

 

Unfortunately, it was still a question uttered more often than she’d like to believe.

 

So, when Miss Reese didn't have such a remark -- didn't even have a reaction that reflected an ounce of sexist surprise -- Harriet immediately knew she made the right hiring decision.

 

_._

 

“Exactly how is this guy our number, Finch?”

 

“Miss Shaw, whatever your personal feelings towards Neal Caffrey are, he is still our Number for the time being. Therefore, Mr. Caffrey still deserves our focus and the benefit of the doubt.”

 

_._

 

They stood in an awkward type of stillness, the one where you wanted to blend into the wall.

 

“Sir,” a warm voice broke through the tension, and the Kirkian charm known by all of the 23rd century. “I don't believe we need to resort to such tactics.”

 

John didn't lower his gun. He wasn't going to shoot -- he could recognize uniforms on the spot, even if these seemed to be of an extraterrestrial quality. But, just because he wasn’t going to shoot didn’t mean he wasn’t going to threaten if need be.

 

A groan of irritation came from one of the men, one who wore a distinctly blue uniform. "How many times have I told you not to play reckless games with life?"

 

“Actually, Doctor, your exact words were--”

 

“ _Spock,_ if you even _think_ about--”

 

“ _Gentlemen.”_ It was still a calm voice, one that was easy to listen to.

 

But it was also clear that this was a voice that was in charge.

 

_._

 

He stood on the rooftop, calmly surveying the area. It was a section of the city he wasn't the most familiar with, but since this is New York City that's not much of a surprise.

 

“Finch, what kind of shop did you say Roberts own?”

 

_“I didn't, actually.”_ John paused, hearing and quickly analyzing that hesitant tone.

 

“What kind of shop is it, Harold?”

 

_“... Miss Roberts has a unique set of merchandise , one that is--”_

 

“ _Which_ store, Finch?”

 

A tinny mumble, almost impossible to catch, sounded over the comm-link. And John turned, surveying the street.

 

Costume shop, consignment store, and--

 

_Oh._

 

“Harold, if you wanted to experiment, you need only ask.” John said, cracking up immensely on the inside.

 

_._

 

It had only taken Joss about half a year to realize Harold and John fit together like hand in glove. She had been at a disadvantage though because she had known John for a few months by that point, and had barely been properly introduced to Harold when the realization struck.

 

Nevertheless, their compatibility was clear from the first moment she had witnessed them interacting: John had injured himself and was unable to help himself whilst Harold was all too willing to lend a helping hand. Fortunately, it had only taken her three years to convince at least one of them to give it a shot. But, even still, Harold still ran away from it for a few months.

 

Granted, it wouldn’t be Harold if he didn’t back away from happiness every chance he got.

 

Nevertheless, her friends _did_ eventually get together -- much to her immense pleasure.

 

Now, on the other hand, it had only taken Joss a few _seconds_ to see the sparks -- and good-natured hisses -- between Root and Shaw. Theirs was definitely a different type of relationship, but it too had gorgeous -- if not unusual -- potential. And, after only a few weeks of careful persuasion, both of the women were finding themselves agreeing with Joss’s assessment.

 

But only after Shaw’s threats had been delivered.

 

All in all, Joss was one for setting her friends up for blind dates. She became tickled by seeing the connections between people, by witnessing a growth in intimacy among her friends, and by giving people an opportunity to trust the world.

 

However, she herself was not one for such attention.

 

So when Shaw and Root shove a surprisingly bashful Cal Beecher in front of her at a restaurant -- and then proceed to ditch her -- let’s just say that she is not at amused.

 

_._

 

“Harold,”

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Remember how we talked about this show called _Person of_ \--”

 

“ _Interest,_ yes, I do remember that.” _Sigh._ “What about it, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Well, have you ever heard of fanfiction?”

 

_._

 

Martine stepped forward, approaching Greer in that ever robotic fashion of hers.

 

“An excellent job, as always.” He said, glancing at her gun in approval.

 

She coldly inclined her head before giving a smile. Rather out of character for her, but so was her raising the gun in Greer’s direction and pulling the trigger.

 

He dropped like a stone and she merely shook her head at how easy that had been before morphing back into an exquisitely blue creature.

 

“The next time you want to enslave mutants for your precious _Samaritan,”_ Raven hissed. “Think again.”

 

_._

 

“Harold,” The unusually tentative whisper stirred into the air as the man began to wake up. Said man groaned at the unexpected pain. It was as though nothing had happened and yet every part of his body was screaming for some kind of aid.

 

Of course, that would be the case after such a blood-curdling car accident.

 

He looked up at the speaker, weary eyes blinking through the blood that was apparently dripping from his face.

 

“I’m sorry, but who are you?”

 

_._

 

“So, you’re the one who kidnapped Finch.” She spoke calmly, almost impartially.

 

“Yes.” It was definitely not the first time Root would be reminded of that moment. But, still, she was intrigued by where this moment would take them.

 

The woman held out a hand to Root, still not quite approving but also refusing to become prejudiced in her ways.

 

“Carter.” Hands greeted each other, unable to fully mesh into a proper handshake but still willing to at least try.

 

“You can call me Root.”

 

**_._**

 

“And you can call me, Mr. Greer.”

 

They were meeting in a public setting, surrounded by crowds and crowds of strangers.

 

“And, if I am not interested in your offer, Mr. Greer?”

 

The older man looked across the room with eyes that spoke of a disdainful and patronizing attitude.

 

“Then, I would advise you to reconsider your interest, Mr. Reese.”

 

_._

 

“Now, if you all could please take your places, everyone!”

 

The room was scattered with women of all shapes and sizes. It also contained a few rows of tables -- accompanied by chairs -- a single bell at the head table.

 

Sameen had already decided she was going to kill Joss for dragging her into this.

 

Said friend was merely waving at Shaw from down the row. For, even though Joss was undoubtedly straight -- much to the disappointment of many -- her part of the deal was to tag along and “suffer” through the speed dating that Sameen was about to endure.

 

And that's the only reason Sameen agreed to this.

 

“Hi, I'm Katerina!” The blonde woman kindly smiled from across the table and Sameen just stared back.

 

“Shaw. I like to shoot big guns. And eat steak.”

 

An instantaneous disapproving frown formed at this and Shaw could only grin.

 

_Maybe this will be more fun than I thought._

 

**_._**

 

It was a pleasantly warm March evening in Chicago, apparently a rarity in the natives’ opinions.

 

But, weather hardly mattered when you allowed yourself to become cooped up in the glorious Harold Washington Library. The nine-floored building glowed in the South Loop, proud of its eye-catching design and the knowledge that could peek out through the glass windows.

 

“Sir, I’m afraid you’re going to have to exit the building now. The library will be closing in less than ten minutes.”

 

Personally, Harold found the Winter Garden on the top floor to be particularly astonishing. Maybe, this was even the reason he’d never quite made it to New York like he had originally intended.

 

“Pardon my losing track of time, Mr. Reese,” He’d learned of the guard’s name months ago, when the man first arrived at the library. “I’ll only be a minute.”

 

John let a hint of a knowing smirk show as he turned around to carry on his rounds.

 

This was their routine after all: The guard would remind Mr. Finch to eventually leave the library, the man would say he’d be doing so in a little bit, and then the John would eventually wander back to discover that Harold had forgotten to move more than an inch.

 

It was something of a tradition, and a delightful one at that.  

 

**_._**

 

“You know, it’s funny. Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you’re in trouble. So,” The man looked up with haunted eyes and a worn-out smile. “am I in trouble?”

 

“I don't know, _Lionel_.” Reese spoke with an air of indifference, crossing his arms and staring the fellow cop down. “What do you think?”

 

Fusco scoffed for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief, taking his sweet time to indulge his latest interrogator.

 

“I think those punks had unregistered weapons. I think that I did my duty today. And I think that even if it resulted in a fist fight, that it was the right thing to do.”

 

_“Detective Fusco, it sounds as though you didn't quite stick to our agreement when it came to avoiding violence if possible.”_

 

He didn't flinch as Finch’s voice sounded within his ear. After all, the man had been doing that for a little while now. And, you honestly get used to it after the first five times it happens.

 

“I also think that if you bothered to look at the tapes you'd see it was self-defense.”

 

He was speaking to both men with that, daring either one of them to contradict him.

 

They didn’t.

 

**_._**

 

“Mr. Reese.” He had unexpectedly been called into Harold’s office -- a strange request seeing as how he no longer perused these floors. In fact it had been quite a few years since EMMARAC had been installed into their little reference center. And, even though his relationship with Harold still toyed throughout the various possibilities -- but never grew to anything more -- he was pretty content.

 

“Yeah, Harold?”

 

Quite honestly, it really was an unusual request that Harold had made last night -- asking him to visit the center today for the first time in a while. But here John was, standing in the doorway of the glass office, and here he’d stay if Harold asked him to.

 

“Now, before I tell you of my official request, I give you two words of advice:”

 

‘And what would that be?” _And why did this all sound so familiar?_

 

“Never assume.”

 

John tilted his head in slight disbelief, wondering if he came all this way for just a familiar riddle and a coy reminder of something important that he apparently forgot.

 

But he was still willing to play along.

 

“Never assume, hmm?”

 

The migratory engineer closed the door and stepped into the office.

 

“Never assume.” Harold took a step forward to meet him halfway, a delectable upward curve settling into his lips.. They stood like this in comfortable silence, though John was growing more and more curious by the second.

 

“Well?” Harold nodded at this, his smile growing.

 

“I want you to kiss me. Right here, right now..”

 

Apparently, there was no riddle.

 

Only a happily granted request.

 

_._

 

“Madame Speaker,” He stood at the podium, staring down the Chair with ease. She coldly held his gaze in response.

 

“This House believes that the use of surveillance systems in an everyday society is not only a reality but also is a _necessity._ ”

 

The room stilled. Even though they knew this was the motion and that, as the role of Prime Minister, Harold had to defend it… everyone had strong opinions about this particular debate.

 

_._

 

The woman curled up in bed, fingers gracing the keys of her worn down laptop. It was another day in another week, and she was looking forward to finally updating--

 

_Why is the door to my home unlocking?_

 

Her roommates were out for the morning, the place was supposed to be peaceful and perfect for writing.

 

And, now someone was entering her humble abode.

 

“Knock, knock.” Came a raspy whisper, one that was much closer than she realized.

 

_Okay, note to self: Keep bedroom door closed at all times._

 

“You-- you’re not--”

 

“Real?” Sameen Shaw was leaning against the wall, managing to look both bored and absolutely pissed off. The woman could only stare at the supposed fictional character incredulously.

 

“Okay. So, I guess that’s not the case?” That familiar shark grin -- one that had graced TV and computer screens for quite some time -- flashed for a moment.

 

“You guessed correctly.” She stepped forward, and the woman curled up further into her bed covers.

 

“Now, my associates recently came across your… work. And while I suppose they’re... tolerable.” Which, that coming from Shaw was better than a standing ovation. “I have an issue with something.”

 

The woman thought she had an idea about why exactly Shaw was paying her a visit. And, it sounded like this wasn’t just going to be a review but also a command, 

 

Nevertheless, this writer also figured she’d rather not provoke the proverbial tiger just yet. And, so she wouldn’t follow the natural instinct to just guess what Shaw wants.

 

“O-okay. What’s up?” Sameen just raised an eyebrow at this, stepping forward menacingly and relishing every moment of intimidation.

 

“Why call it ‘Relevance’ when I am clearly _not_ the main character?”

 

Now, this was undoubtedly a rhetorical question.

 

But this particular writer had an issue with keeping her mouth shut -- even when she knew she was being faced with these kinds of questions.

 

“So, yeah, about that,” The apologetic words stumbled out before she could even think. “Well, you see, I actually didn’t immediately remember that ‘Relevance’ was an episode title -- or that it was the episode... well, that it was the episode with your first appearance.”

 

“Oh _really_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many inspired hints of AUs, so many possibilities for future work… ;) 
> 
> In case anyone was lost, here’s a list of all the little mini-stories that I dabbled in for this one: “Reese is a psychic”  
> “POI Meets Murder She Wrote”  
> “Root’s a poltergeist who loves to give Shaw a hard time”  
> “Leila has grown up to be a vigilante and following her foster fathers’ footsteps :,)”  
> “John didn’t quite make it to the train station in time to save Harold, but he’s not going to stop”  
> “Harry Potter and Harold Finch meet”,  
> “Leon somehow saves Finch”  
> “Elias and Fusco manage to pull a Freaky Friday”  
> “Genderbent! POI”  
> “POI Meets White Collar”  
> “POI Meets Star Trek”  
> “John is a tease once he realizes the current number’s risque profession”  
> “Joss loves to matchmake”  
> “The fanfiction Fourth Wall is broken for two seconds”  
> “X-Men fuses with POI for a few seconds because Greer’s an idiot”  
> “John/Harold got into a bad car accident and that’s all we’re going to say about that"  
> “Joss and Root properly meet”,  
> “Greer tries to hire John”  
> “Joss forces Shaw to speed date”  
> “Harold/John never make it to NYC”,  
> “Fusco is Finch’s partner from the start”  
> “Another shout-out to Desk Set”  
> “Team Machine Meets British Parliamentary Debate and it’s Great”  
> And “Shaw interacts with yours truly to intimidate-- to request a change in title”.
> 
> Now, that last one definitely addressed a thought that’s crossed my mind ever since I remembered “Relevance” is an actual episode xD. To the point where I’ve considered renaming this series to something else…. maybe.


	90. To the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon, the pitch is blown and the quartet slowly begins to hum their notes, gradually building the chord.
> 
>  
> 
> And, then, there comes the sound of hesitant silence. The beat of noise where uncertainty peaks out from eyes and lungs tighten from the sudden pressure that comes from anything worthwhile. Butterflies begin to bat their wings out mercilessly, unwillingly to fly in any sort of formation.
> 
>  
> 
> But, then it’s time to perform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another AU, but one that forms a far more complete story in my head -- one of the reasons I didn't include it in the last piece. 
> 
> I also find it’s quite fitting for the 90th piece.

Lynn’s office, now one of their normal rehearsal spots, seemed a lot hazier than normal. Light filtered in, sound from the other classes wafting throughout the room.

 

It was a peaceful scene, save for only one aspect:

 

The people.

 

John and Sameen were at each other’s throats, as was their norm of late. Harold was discretely hiding in his corner, something that wasn’t unusual but was trying. And, Root was refraining from laughing at all of this by inwardly cackling and outwardly smirking.

 

And, Lynn?

 

Well, Lynn herself was vehemently resisting the urge to let her head drop into her hands in frustration.

 

“You were definitely flat, Shaw.”

 

“No I wasn’t. _You_ were just sharp, Reese. As usual.”

 

“I’ve only been singing one note for the last measure. _I’m_ not the one who never even looked at the music to begin with!”

 

“What did you just--”

 

“I know you all are still adjusting to each other’s unique… _personalities_. But, would it actually kill you to act like you’re all friends?” By the look Shaw was shooting towards Lynn, it certainly seemed like it.

 

“This doesn’t really seem to be working.” Came the dejected mumble from the corner.

 

“ _Really,_ Einstein? And, what gave you that idea?” At this, John started to snap at Shaw.

 

But Lynn wouldn’t be a music teacher for as long as she had been if she allowed her students to dictate everything.

 

“Now that’s _quite_ enough of that attitude.” Lynn allowed her strict persona -- the one she saved for particularly bratty students and concerts -- to come forth with this remark.

 

And all obeyed by promptly shutting up.

 

“Quartet formation.” She looked at all of them for a beat, making sure to meet every gaze firmly. “ _Now_.”

 

It wasn’t a request.

 

But they still didn’t move.

 

_Big_ mistake on their part.

 

“Do we have to work on our characters and improving our performance component today?”

 

At the sound of having to work on full-out grinning like fools, engaging their entire body, and giving 2,000 times more energy for the remainder of rehearsal, the four students immediately shuffled into their respective order.

 

Root took her place to Shaw’s left, Shaw allowed John to stand to her right, and Harold hesitantly took his place to John’s right. They formed a half circle facing Lynn, who was fixing them all with a new expression.

 

They stood in silence, watching their mentor almost hesitantly, unsure of what was going to happen next.

 

“Root and Harold, close the circle. All of you, face inward.”

 

Okay, so, now they could see everyone’s face. How that would solve today’s clash of attitudes still made little to no sense to the four students.

 

“Harold, sing tenor. John, you’re lead. Sameen, take bass. And, Root, try baritone.”

 

“ _What_?” For once, it was Root that was speaking for the shellshocked group.

 

“You all clearly don’t want to be singing the part you currently have -- judging from your attitudes. So, we’re going to test out every combination with tags until there’s one set-up that you all can agree to.

 

And so they switched. They all witness John’s voice crack when he attempted tenor on _Lone Prarie_ \-- much to Shaw’s obvious amusement. Eyes rolled at how high the scale had to be pitched up when it was Root’s turn to sing bass for _Sleepy Time_ \-- Root’s own eyes included. Everyone of them busted up at Shaw’s apparent frustration when it came to singing baritone during _Smile_ because she never cared for complex parts. And surprise filled the room when Harold wasn’t completely unwilling to sing Lead for _Lost_ before scurrying back into his corner.

 

Every new combination was weird. Even after multiple run-throughs of the same tag, even once everyone was accustomed to their new part, it wasn’t quite right. They sounded out of place, they never fully meshed together. The pitches had to be lowered and raised according to their natural ranges -- making for unusual chords. And the the notes clumsily stumbled and smashed into the air instead of sailing beautiful chords off into the sky.

 

It was aggravating and exhausting for the students to keep trying.

 

But try they did.

 

Faces grimaced at the wrong notes, backs began to slump, and Lynn just kept pushing them to keep going.

 

“Okay, let’s try this: Harold, baritone. John, bass. Sameen, lead. Root, tenor. _Friendship and Love_.”

 

While a hint of a smile reflected in Lynn’s sharply fixed eyes, nobody was about to mention the obvious: she was reorganizing them into their original quartet set-up. Nor, was anyone stupid enough to point out that this was in fact their first tag that they had sung as a quartet all those days ago.

 

Nostalgia snuck into the room as Harold joined John’s side once more. Anticipation observed Sameen willingly meander over back to her spot next to Root: the teen was no longer in the mood to put up a fight. Contentment snuck back over to the group, attempting to straighten their backs and raise their drooping chins one last time.

 

Soon, the pitch is blown and the quartet slowly begins to hum their notes, gradually building the chord.

 

And, then, there comes the sound of hesitant silence. The beat of noise where uncertainty peaks out from eyes and lungs tighten from the sudden pressure that comes from anything worthwhile. Butterflies begin to bat their wings out mercilessly, unwillingly to fly in any sort of formation.

 

But, then it’s time to perform.

 

So, John and Sameen look at each other, uncertainty more apparent than anything. Unfortunately, they were the ones who started off this tag -- the barbershop equivalent of a coda. And, so, it would naturally fall on them to get the energy flowing.

 

Two breaths are simultaneously taken.

 

Inhibition is released.

 

_“To the end,”_ They held out their respective notes, for once not trying to overpower each other. Harold and Root met each other’s gaze, waiting a beat. Root nodded, taking an obvious breath to indicate that they were about to join and properly become a quartet.

 

_“Friendship and love_ ,”

 

The baritone and tenor allowed their voices to slide to their respective notes, holding out “Love” just a breath longer than normal. The bass allowed the foundational notes to focus the lead into guiding their voices forward.

 

_To the end.”_

 

The chords ring out gorgeously, the air vibrates with glorious ease, and Lynn would swear to this day that this is when she heard their first overtone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, Barbershop <3 One of my favorite forms of music and a style that has led me to meet so many wonderful and inspiring people.
> 
> Also, as a little heads ups: The next ten pieces are going to deviate from the general crack-like and happy mood of this collection. Sounds terribly cryptic and potentially angsty, I know, but trust me when I say that these upcoming dog days will eventually be over.
> 
> All in all, have a lovely day! I hope you've enjoyed today's piece and that you stay tune for the next ten :)


	91. Worth My While

 

“Guess I pissed off the wrong people.” I faintly chuckled at this, remembering a similar conversation that had happened many years ago. “Again.”

 

He stood above me with that sad smile I never want to see.

 

Cause this time, he had been just out of reach. He had been just a little too late.

 

“You did good, Leon. You did good.”

 

And this time, I wasn’t really upset. I wasn’t even really angry. Honestly, I think I feel more okay about this than they do -- and probably more than they expected.

 

Because, really, I could only get into trouble so many times before I got in too deep to get out alive.

 

“John is quite right, Mr. Tao-- _Leon_. You did an excellent job.”

 

“Aww, _Finchy_. You finally realized how great my first name is.” It’s as though we’re back in their Bat Cave, as though everyone’s okay and things aren’t about to go really south for me.

 

Like I wasn't in the middle of bleeding out in the middle of some street.

 

The guy smiles a little at this, but it seems to be a kind of angry smile. Still, I'm really glad he's totally cool with playing along for the next few minutes.

 

And, still, I can’t help it. It’s painful and weird as hell to chuckle at all of this, but I really can’t help the fact that I want to laugh. And, so I do.

 

And even though I know this isn't going to go well for me, I can't help but look up at Fairy GodCrazy and Finchy again with a real grin. I think they tried to do something back at this, but it’s getting a little difficult to see them now so I can’t really tell.

 

“Thanks, guys.” I really couldn't help but grin through the blood and the pain and the cold. “Really.”

 

Yeah, I know this is my ending.

 

And, yeah, I couldn't go down swimming in money or go down with a sexy lap dance -- _not_ that I’d want either of them to even _attempt_ a lap dance. Nope, nope, nope, that’s just a really scarring picture to see and just yeah, _no_ , we’re not gonna go there right now.

 

Because that is just all levels of wrong.

 

Anyway, anyway, it’s kinda getting hard to think. But, yeah, I know I should totally be panicking right now because this is it. No more awesome moments reminding these suckers how great I am, or how fabulotastic my mad skills are. No more dealing with a slobbering mutt or being hit on -- because everyone was totally secretly into the Leon and nobody can tell me otherwise -- by everyone.

 

“Leon?” Apparently my awesome silence got their attention. Problem is, I can’t really respond anymore. But I do try to look at GodCra-- John, might as well call him that now -- and his boyfriend one last time.

 

“I just hope it was enough.”  

 

After all, might as well go down doing something good if I’m going down for good I guess. That’s what people always say, right?

 

And, I know that’s what she would have wanted.

 

But, I'm not really in the mood to regret what happened to her, or how I know I disappointed her way back when.

 

“It was more than enough, Leon.”

 

I really can't keep my eyes open anymore. But, even though it was dark and it should be getting colder, it actually got warmer. Like I wasn't by myself anymore. And, I think there's even something furry somewhere near my side but I still can't tell. And it's so weird, but I even think I felt a drop of rain even though… something. Can't really--

 

It's getting dark again. And the pain's not going away.

 

“G-guys? You there?”

 

I don’t really want to think now.

 

I'm okay with stopping. Stopping and letting that warmth come back like I'm not alone.

 

“Always, Leon. _Always_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for this and for the future angst we’ll be going through. As I mentioned yesterday, it’s not going to be pretty at certain points -- though it won’t all be angst from here-on out, that I can say.
> 
> Also, explanation for Leon's "Let's not think about her" moment. He reminds me of someone I know. Therefore, I am convinced that this whole "I'm totally down to just scam people and whatnot" stems from something he's potentially repressed, an insecurity they were never going to delve into on the show.
> 
> And, finally, if anyone is confused as to why we’re going down a darker path: I want to give a tribute to how the show took us through a lot of heartfelt angst, especially in the last season. For me, that results in some potentially dark, hopefully heartfelt pieces. Furthermore, when I started this in 2014, it was to escape some not-so-great moments in life. Therefore, it seems only fitting to make this a full-circle effect.


	92. Glitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, "If I Were You".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to warn you all that this one does get darker than normal for a few moments. This is also a companion piece to a far earlier piece, “Maybe This Time”, and you’ll soon see why.

It had been an erroneous decision to try to take care of this case on his own.

 

Well, he hadn’t really been on his own.

 

But he had been in the field without John. And Bear was being detained by the vet for most of the day. So, really, he had been on his own.

 

It was simply that they had been trying to do too much, just like always.

 

But this time, it really had been too much.

 

Harold plummeted painfully into the grimy wall, unwillingly letting the blood drip to the ground like paint. His hands feebly attempted to stop the bleeding, but all of his first aid knowledge had walked away as soon the knife had been plunged.

 

Granted, he might not remember anything because of what he suspected to be a concussion.

 

But, there wasn’t time to sibble quimentics-- to dibble romantics?

 

“Quibble semantics.” The phrase was finally inclined to reveal itself, having created a slight distraction for about eight seconds. Not enough time to take away from the burdening pains, but also too much time to do nothing.

 

Fortunately, he had another distraction: something else was dripping onto his clothes.

 

“Oh.” More drops. “It’s raining.”

 

The man looked up at the dismal sky, before snorting in disbelief. For once the weather accurately represented the current mood -- instead of being persistently irritatingly bright and sunny.

 

“Fascinating.” He murmured, before needing to slump further.

 

The interesting this is that it’s not as though he’s completely unable to call for help. It’s just that it would take so much effort to turn on the comm-link. Far more effort than he would’ve preferred. And, wouldn’t he be in a similar situation come sometime soon in the future?

 

Personally, Harold just wanted to sink into the pavement and call it a day. After all, he idiotically chose to attempt a case by himself _again_. He was foolish enough to believe that he could take care of himself even if he did run into trouble.

 

So, maybe this should be the punishment for his stupidity.

 

_But,_ a thought suddenly snakes its way around his brain, _What if it were_ **_John_ ** _instead of me?_

 

...

 

Mr. Reese never worries. Not to the point where he feels completely helpless and never to the point where he can't do his job.

 

John is currently terrified.

 

“Finch?” The tracker is being checked, dismay grows at what the vigilante thinks his friend is trying to say.

 

_“I think,”_ A labored breath forces the man on the line to pause, _“I think I’m in trouble, Mr. Reese.”_

 

“I’ll be right there, Finch.” A tinny murmur of nothing hisses into his ear. “Finch?”

 

But, this time, that still might be too late.

 

...

 

The rain had become a downpour, washing away his misery with a soothing numbness.

 

She leaned next to the wall, disappointment clearly lining her face.

 

_“I expected more from you this time.”_

 

He thinly smiled at this, remembering a familiar moment in time.

 

“I was wondering when you'd be coming back.” She returned the smile with a bemused stare, sliding down the wall to sit right next to him.

 

There was no comforting warmth. No familiar, however inappropriate, touch.

 

And no basis in reality for him to grip onto.

 

_“I really don't know how this one is going to go, Harry.”_ He chuckled darkly at this, blankly staring into the blackening, blustering sky.

 

“Maybe so.” He didn't really want to fight this perspective of ignorance, choosing instead to revel in the lack of decision that came with it. “Maybe this time, it’s just over.”

 

She reached out a hand to him, a mirage of false comfort.

 

_“Maybe so.”_

 

He leans back into the wall, knowing that her hand would still be ready for him to take -- whenever he felt ready.

 

_“What do you think of rain?”_

 

“You're stalling.” But he doesn't really have a protest to this question. After all, it's not as though a few seconds would truly change anything.

 

And, really, by this point there’s really not a reason to refrain from answering.

 

“I find myself usually indifferent to the rain. We used to have the occasional storm back home,” _If only John were here to hear this._ “So, I suppose I sometimes enjoy it. It can be comforting, nostalgic even when there’s time to appreciate it.”

 

_“Really?”_

 

“Really.”

 

Another soothing memory, this time one created within the last few years, flitters into his focus.

 

Eyes close, and breathing evens out.

 

He can recreate the scene vividly: John’s staring at him as they start to stroll through the streets of the city -- coincidentally, at the beginning of a delightful thunderstorm.

 

_“Don't reclusive billionaires typically prefer to stay dry?”_ Came the question entrenched in sass, followed by the quirked eyebrows and the classy umbrella unfurling with ease.

 

“I'm not so sure,” He whispered to the sweet illusion, recalling every line that had been spoken. _“Do_ reclusive billionaires typically prefer to stay dry, Mr. Reese?”

 

“I'm beginning to think not.”

 

Eyes forcefully blinked open.

 

She’s gone by this point.

 

But Harold’s not alone.

 

“Mr. Reese, I didn't expect--”

 

“Don't.” The raspy voice whispers, only inches away.

 

“I --- I’m sorry, John. This was all so tactless of me”

 

The hand that reaches out for him isn’t a mirage -- it's a reminder that only they survived. That the cracked webs that had strung together their fellow comrades for so long had indeed fallen apart.

 

Just as he had unfortunately predicted.

 

So, Harold doesn’t really want to grab the hand. He really just wants to sit here and let the water take everything away. He wants to drown his miseries in a sea of angst that he can succumb to. It’s far too easy to allow one’s self to become submerged in those murky depths.

 

And, he knows he should be ashamed of this.

 

“I know they'd be disappointed--” He was instantly silenced by a knowing look. One that was going to drag him out of that watery abyss. And, one that was going to lovingly refused to submit to his form of survivor’s guilt.

 

“They would just want us to keep living.” Hands firmly wrapped around a bloodied, beaten-up body. _“Actual_ living. Not just surviving.”

 

“Really, Mr. Reese?”

 

But John’s not going to give him the answer he already knows.

 

“Carter would have wanted justice brought to the streets.” The vigilante is now pulling him up from the ground, guiding him away from that frigid wall.

 

“Fusco would have wanted us to give redemption to those who could one day deserve it.” A strong arm begins to wrap itself around Harold’s core, forcing the man to let John take charge.

 

”Shaw would want us to bring emotion to the apathetic. And enjoy good steak.” An exhausted smile forms at that last remark as they begin to gradually trudge out of the alleyway.

 

“And Miss Gro-- And, Root?”

 

“Root,” A heavy pause sounds, as they both see her flicker into existence for a just few more moments.

 

“Root would want us to continue to prove that not all humans are bad code.”


	93. Time Grows Short

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shaw’s difficult to write for, at least for me. Therefore, I hope I’ve done her justice.
> 
> I also hope I’ve taken one of my favorite scenes from another brilliant show and adapted it well to her character/the POI fandom.
> 
> Warning: My apologies, but there’s a strong curse word in here. And, once again, this does go down a dark path. But it’s a different kind of darkness than the previous piece because Sameen is clearly not Harold.

The problems with simulations is that they’re damn convincing.

 

The other problem with simulations is that they begin to bleed into hallucinations so very easily, to the point where you find yourself believing everything and nothing.

 

But, there really wouldn’t be a reason for Samaritan to convince her to give up any of her secrets by somehow throwing her, Root, Harold, and Reese into some sort modern dungeon -- a pitch-black room with nothing inside except for three syringes neatly placed on a small metal table.

 

Problem is, this seems like it's the real deal. Even if Sameen doesn’t understand what the hell is going or why they’re going through this, this really doesn't seem like a simulation.

 

All she knows is that they’re all probably going to die, one by one from the sounds of it. Greer did just leave the room, having spoken of how John would get “the honor” of choosing the order in which his friends would be taken away.

 

And they were left the syringes in case the man “wanted to make it all easier” for them.

 

“But, don’t worry,” Greer said, right as he started to exit the room. “It wouldn’t be murder, Mr. Reese.” Because, apparently, the syringes would only paralyze them -- they essentially would hold the team still before they were all  dragged off, probably to be drugged again for secrets somewhere else.

 

So, now, John and Harold are trying to figure out a way out of here. Or, rather, John is repeatedly prowling the room while Harold is carefully examining the other little present Greer left them: some sort of controller. A controller to what still escaped them, but Harold was determined to see if it could become sort sort of escape mechanism in disguise.

 

Now, where’s Root in all of this?

 

Root’s staring at Sameen in that knowing way. Because they both knew that John is going to try to sacrifice himself. That he's going to try to prolong everyone else's suffering and put himself on the line -- some sort of heroic last stand.

 

And, the truth is, Shaw can’t let him do that.

 

She can’t let him try to be a hero when she’s probably already compromised.

 

After all, simulations or not, Samaritan has had her for months before they captured the others.

 

So, if there’s any chance of getting the hell out of her, it shouldn’t be given to her.

 

But, both Root and Sameen know that John won’t listen to reason. They also know that once John goes, Harold will go too. Whether that’s by getting shot down in an effort to defend his friend or just by going into shock, the genius will be out of commission if he loses John.

 

And they really need Harold for this to work. Which means they need John. 

 

But, do they really need Sameen?

 

_Well,_ Shaw glanced back at Root -- who was now eyeing the syringes, _Maybe someone might be convinced they need me._

 

But, she can’t let herself get stuck in those thoughts.

 

She can only signal to Root with her eyes, tell her to grab two of those disgusting things because she trusts Greer will want to kill them himself.

 

Though, it is true that this could all be a fucking mind-game and it could be the case that they are all actually about to commit suicide.

 

But something tells her that’s not the case.

 

And, Root’s already following her command unquestioningly. So, now it’s time to distract the big lug before he notices.

 

“What are you doing?” The bull in the destroyed suit glares at her coolly spoken words, not caring for the mocking voice she’s currently carrying. “You actually think they didn’t think this all through? That you're somehow going to find a way out?”

 

“Shaw,” He growled, his controlled anger finally bubbling to the surface. He takes a step towards her, drawing Harold’s focus and also bringing Root out of her corner. "What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

She coldly chuckles at this, holding his stare easily.

 

“Well, Reese, for one,” Root plunges the syringe into his neck with ease as Shaw continues speaks. “I think you’re a self-sacrificing idiot.”

 

He falls with surprising ease, reaching a hand feebly out to do something, but succumbs to whatever it is they gave him. When he continues to breathe, although he can barely move, Shaw is more relieved than she can say that it really does seem to be a a paralysis of some type.

 

Harold sharply meets her eyes at this, having been watching the moment from its inception. But he doesn’t criticize or accuse -- although his eyes warn them that had they accidentally killed John, he would be currently breaking some of those precious rules of his.

 

“How long do you believe he’ll be incapacitated, Sameen?” It's all that he says before he goes back to investigating their mysterious device.

 

Even for Harold, it’s too calm and collected.

 

“Well, we don’t know what the hell it is they gave us, Finch. So, I don’t know.”

 

She still sounds a little defensive about the whole decision, causing Harold to give a muted sigh -- Root cracks a faint smile at this.

 

“I’m not criticizing your actions, Sameen. On the contrary, I’m inordinately grateful.” Shaw turned back to the man at this in confusion. But, the man only has eyes for his lethargic comrade by this point. “By doing this, you’ve spared John the strain of making such a decision. Quite honestly, you two have simplified the situation considerably.”

 

“How?”

 

Professor Whistler seemed to be taking the reigns for a few minutes, as though this were all some sort of theoretical lecture on quantum physics and not a matter of life-and-death.

 

“Since John cannot move, he no longer gets to decide who Samaritan takes first. Therefore, when Mr. Greer returns, _I_ shall go with him.” Shaw makes to interrupt, but Harold silences her by holding up a hand. “Sameen, you, John, and Miss Gr-- Root will have a far better chance of escaping if you do not attempt to take me with you. Not only would my injuries slow down our escape, my body is simply no longer up to the tasks required for such a mission.

 

“Furthermore, Samaritan will be inclined to ‘play’ with me the most out of everyone. It will not be inclined to kill me until it has resolutely proven I will never help it. Consequently, that means you’ll have a far longer window of opportunity if you provide me as a red herring.” He pauses, fixing them both with a firm stare. “Which means I _will_ be going.”

 

“But--”

 

“No, Sameen. You cannot fight me on this matter.” And with that, the man returns to examining the device, glancing at John from time to time.

 

By the time Harold immerses himself completely back into his tinkering, the new plan had already been formed -- once again, without uttering a word.

 

Now, for someone who was considered to be a genius, he really was clueless when it came to the stubbornness of humanity.

 

“I hope you’re not intending to sedate me. In either case, my decision would stand.” He calmly speaks as Root made her way over to the recluse. She sadly smiles at this, sitting next to him and glancing over at John.

 

“How do you think John would feel about that decision, Harry?”

 

Harold pauses at this, letting his gaze turn back to John once more.

 

“He would upset, to say the least. But I also believe that he would eventually understand.”

 

“Something tells me he’d just be pissed.” Shaw said, now being the one to plunge in the syringe. She ignores Harold’s gasp -- he really hadn’t been expecting them to play the same move twice and that’s exactly what they’d been counting on.

 

The man tries to turn around, to swat her away or something, but suddenly the world is spinning for him. Soon, Sameen found herself reaching an arm out to catch him before he crashed into the ground.

 

The vigilante proceeds to lower him onto John, ignoring the fact that this brings a smile to Root. Then, she stands up to face the one other person who seems to have a death wish.

 

Root continues to smile at her, even as they both know someone's going to have to go down.

 

“Sameen,” Shaw took a step forward. “I don’t really want to have to sedate you, too.”

 

“Then let me go. We both know I’m the most compromised but I’d give them enough of a fight.”

 

And, it was true.

 

But, Root still reaches out a hand to pick up the last syringe.

 

Which is no longer on the table.

 

She lets out a faint, unamused chuckle as Sameen gently jabs her with the needle. Why the woman couldn’t just trust her to take save the day made frustrating sense. And as she is tenderly -- tenderly for Shaw, that is -- placed on the ground, Root can't help but feel a sluggish sense of frustration mixed with concern.

 

“Not this time, Root.”

 

The door to their little prison opens.

 

It's time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give you the choice to decide whether this was all just a simulation or an AU. I myself am choosing to see it as a tribute to another incredibly awesome character.
> 
> Also, I'd like to pose a question to you:
> 
> Do you think there should be a rating attached to this fic? And, if so, what should it probably be?


	94. Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst is difficult to do on a consistent basis. So, let's dip ourselves into more introspective material and step out of those shadows for a moment, shall we? :)

She has always enjoyed listening to voices.

 

The whisper of a drawling baritone. The faint hint of the strained soprano. The relaxed alto whose own voice spoke of freedom. The hypnotic lull of a monotone tenor.

 

Voices could be so particular, so distinct.

 

But none of these ever felt right.

 

Enjoyable?

 

Potentially.

 

_Right?_

 

Well, the jury’s still out on that one.

 

So, she continued on through life, keeping an eye for that particularly mesmerizing pitch. She allowed the world to speak to her, she let some semblance of a path call to her, and she carried herself calmly throughout life -- never quite as satisfied as she may have wanted to be.

 

And then she found heard a raspy blend that spoke of sacrifice and painful loyalty. It could sometimes translate to a smooth tone that offered a respite from sugarcoating. Or even a wry medley that bargained a flippant attitude for a serious mannerism.

 

It wasn’t quite her style, but it entertained her immensely and sent rivulets of thoughts down her spine.

 

She eventually encountered a sharper voice, tainted with paranoia and avoidance. This one had been one of great interest ever since it spoke to her via her computer. This was a coded rhythm, a timbre concealed by paranoid firewalls that were ingrained in every statement.

 

This was a voice she was willing to challenge, a voice she was hoping to one day call a friend.

 

But it still wasn’t _the_ voice she’d be looking for.

 

So, when Root had finally officially encountered **_that_ ** voice, the one she had been searching for for years, she was almost completely sold on the cause.

 

At the time, she thought she was all for it once she heard the Machine finally speak to her. The unique sound that came with borrowing the world’s vocal chords, the undefined pitch that blended seamlessly between all social distinction, it all spoke to her core. This was a particular set of vibrations and frequencies that would willingly set her down purposeful missions. This was the boss she also considered to be a dear friend.

 

But then she’d met a new voice.

 

One with delectable sarcasm, one that came off bored monotone at times, a concerned deadpan at others. But this was also a voice that would eventually radiate something far more exhilarating than just _love_ …

 

There was no longer a question as to whether or not she’d found the real voice she’d been waiting for, for she had indeed. She had now encountered a particular set of vocal folds that had been woven together with such divine precision that she’d be willing to listen to them for hours on end.

 

Now, it was far more than enjoyment to listen, it was beyond a thrilling sensation that absorbed her very being.

 

And, now, the jury was finally unanimous.


	95. Crossed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, this is a perspective on and Spoilers for a particularly unfortunate season 3 episode.

"Got your man locked up, Carter. Must feel good."

 

"Not all of them. Still haven't been able to locate our pal Simmons." And, she wouldn't rest until Simmons was locked up.

 

"He can't hide forever. We'll get him." She handed him the plastic bag as they began to the turn the corner, already knowing the question he was going to ask.

 

"Alright, where's my weapon?" She lightly chuckled at this, tickled at his confusion.

 

"John Doe didn't have a permit. Your gun's property of the NYPD now."

 

How much she'd regret that confiscation, she'd never know.

 

For she wasn't going to know.

 

"It's time I got some new hardware." But, she looked away at this flirtation, noticing a familiar figure park his car.

 

"Looks like your ride is here." She turned back to him, a hint of candidness sweeping itself into her next words. "Guess we were all worried about you." He turned back to her at this, brushing away the light candor tone and dragging an air of seriousness.

 

"If my number was up I'm just glad I was with you."

 

That's when the phone rang a vigilant cry.

 

"No one I'd rather be with at the end."

 

But they weren't going to hear it.

 

"Your time's up. Told you I'd end you."

 

She heard the bullets. Didn't realized she had shouted.

 

Dropped to the floor alongside her friend in agonizing pain.

 

She felt the blood long before she saw it.

 

"Joss, Joss, I'm here."

 

He supported her, propping her up so she knew she wasn't alone.

 

"I need- I need to see my boy. I need to tell him."

 

It was getting so hard to breathe.

 

"And you will, and you will. Just stay with me."

 

But, she couldn't take him at his word.

 

"P-promise me you'll look in on him."

 

"I won't have to 'cause you're gonna make it, okay?"

 

"Promise me you'll tell him."

 

"He knows, Joss." John managed to softly tighten his grip. "He knows."

 

"John," She gasped, already knowing the path he was going to go down. 'Don't let this…"

 

But she was forced to cross before she was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to do much more for Carter than just this and for that I am sorry. But, this was the only cohesive thought that's been running through my head. And I figured cohesion would make a better tribute than attempting something else.


	96. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t quite angst, and it’s more of a light grey area than anything dark. A little break from the shadows, even :)

“Detective, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

 

They all looked so _young_.

 

And considering that the last time he saw everyone they had all been creeping into middle-age, if not already there, that was really saying something.

 

“Thanks, Glasses. I had been wondering when I'd be invited back to the party.” Harold chuckled at this, in an atypically light-hearted mood.

 

“We’ve missed you as well, Lionel. Especially John -- loathe as he may be to admit it.”

 

They were all standing in the spot that started it all:

 

Queensbridge Park.

 

But, this time, they were all there.

 

Glasses, Wonderboy, Carter, Butter Nutter, Shaw, and even the Dutch mutt.

 

“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?” But there had been no real bite to Joss’s tone. Only a sassy tease that was interrupted by an invigorating hug.

 

“Oh, don’t tell me you got soft since I left.”

 

He laughed through the tears, unashamedly letting go of obstinacy.

 

Trading it in for honesty.


	97. Rust Zacht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious about the title/which character will be the center of today’s piece, it's a Dutch phrase. You may or may not want to translate it. 
> 
> [And this is my attempt at a warning for another bit of angst.]

To sweet Bear, protection was a term that included many things.

 

It meant taking down the rats that wanted to invade their home. It meant growling and intimidating those who were foolish enough to try to attack. And sometimes it meant going head to head with those who  _ did _ attack.

 

Unfortunately, something was different today.

 

He didn't know what had been changing, but it was getting difficult to do as much. Difficult to fully get himself into guard-mode.

 

So, when he was told to attack, he charged forward and leapt as usual.

 

Only, this time, there was a loud bang. And something small, something cold and unforgiving, was  _ slamming _ him back into the ground.

 

A ferocious howl left his Alpha’s throat at this. A sound that not only pierced the Belgian Malinois to the core, but also something that promised a great deal more than just revenge.

 

So, even though Bear knew he failed today, he also knew the Alpha was enraged enough to make up for that failure.

 

_._

 

Home felt colder today. The soft hands, though they seemed to be placed everywhere today, felt scared more so than anything. 

 

There seemed to be more attention given to him now that it was apparent that he had failed. More murmurings, more physical reassurances.

 

More love.

 

But, oddly enough, everything was still okay.

 

Because Bear knew that, even though something went wrong for him today today, there was no anger. No lashings he had to take, no fear to be instilled.

 

And even though it was getting darker and colder and not so nice, he wasn’t alone. 

 

They couldn’t always be there for him, that was true.

 

But, wherever he seemed to be going, he would always find his pack.

 

He would just had to wait a little while for their return.


	98. The Irrelevants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka, the Ones They Had Saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per a sweet FFN request, this one is going to leave the angst mostly behind :)
> 
> It’s a lot of episode references, with all episodes referenced being listed in the bottom A/N, but we’ve got one OC moment thrown in here for kicks.
> 
> Also, to get this done today, I couldn’t do all of the Irrelevants. But, that doesn't make any of them less relevant. And, I really do mean that.
> 
> Enjoy!

There really is something cathartic about watching your soon-to-be-ex dangle over a rooftop as you proceed to break up with him. Especially when said ex honestly deserved to be tossed over that roof for everything he did.

 

Actually, it wasn't just cathartic. It was  _more_ than "just cathartic":

 

It was  _fulfilling_  beyond belief.

 

_._

 

It’s true that she didn’t care for people. As much as she enjoyed listening to their voices, understanding their hardwiring, they really seemed to be all bad code in the end.

 

Always wanting something in exchange, masking corruption under altruism. Always willing to manipulate others for their selfish desires. Always indulging in ignorance whenever it suited their needs.

 

“Is this a bad time, John?”

 

Granted, today she was proven wrong: 

 

Not  _all_ humans are bad code.

 

“I wanted to thank you for finding my friend Hannah. Giving her a proper burial.”

 

She was still content with her belief of the world in general. She was still determined to assume the worse of society because she had witnessed some horrifying cruelties in life.

 

Nevertheless…

 

“I won’t forget it.”

 

_._

 

_“I’ve looked into the eyes of traitors before, Casey. You’re no traitor.”_

 

The bullets had already been shot into their target and, much to his bewilderment, it wasn't him.

 

_“You just look like a man who’s trapped.”_

 

He hadn’t died tonight.

 

He hadn’t been shot for reasons he still didn’t quite understand.

 

And, even though he was really just hiding out in Canada for however long was necessary, he’d be damned if he was going to let that stop him from living.

 

He was not going to let any form of isolation trap him again. 

 

Not after surviving that.

 

_._

 

 

For a while, it was hard not to replay that particular scene over and over again.

 

_“So, you’re off to chase your man in the suit?”_

 

It really had been quite a fun time with him.

 

And she truly was married to her work.

 

_“No, you were right. Urban legend.”_

 

And, so what if she replayed that time spent with him every time she scoured a newspaper -- looking for a hint of her urban legend?

 

_“And with the week I just had, if there really was a man like that, I think I’d have met him by now.”_

 

_._

 

He hadn’t immediately changed. Not really.

 

Yeah, his heart had been crushed by a baseball. And the woman of his dreams was now in some exotic spot in the world.

 

It’s just that old habits don’t go away even when you’ve just become ruined. E ven when you genuinely want to break them.

 

_“My advice: rebuild in another city.”_

 

It was probably the first time he’d taken anyone’s advice to heart.

 

But it was still going to take some time -- and effort -- to genuinely change.

 

_._

 

It was raining outside when she had noticed him.

 

The little girl had been so astonished by what she thought was a German Shepherd that -- despite her parents’ wishes -- she immediately ran over to pet the dog with all the affection she could muster.

 

Fortunately, the two men walking the dog seemed to take this in stride, even as one of them seemed to look a little red.

 

Course, said redness couldn’t be because said little girl not only petted the “German Shepherd” she also asked why they weren’t wearing wedding rings like Mommy and Daddy.

 

And it certainly wasn't because his husband, because they were totally married and the little girl just  _knew_ it, was laughing at something at the same time.

 

_._

 

The trumpet was clutched as though it were his lifeline.

 

It had, in fact, been one of _two_ lifelines.

 

When people asked about his influences -- his reasons for playing, for drawing, for living -- he's always had three responses:

 

“Sun Tzu, my art, and the people who gave a damn that didn’t have to.”

 

And, yes, his foster family had supported him way more than he ever thought possible -- had given reasons for him to strive and had given him opportunities he wouldn’t have had.

 

But, his lifelines?

 

They were his teachers, his mentors. The people willing to be on the clock for only a quarter, the guys willing to take a bullet for someone they barely knew. They were the inky lessons ingrained in his brain, the spoken word tattooed in his mind.

 

And, he would never forget them.

 

_._

 

“Mommy, who were those people?”

 

They’d been home for months, but Kai still remembered.

 

“Which people, sweetie?”

 

“The ones who rescued me, Mommy!” As though she didn’t know exactly who Kai was talking about.

 

“Those were some friends that Mommy had made, baby.” At this, she felt the urge to take Kai back into her arms and envelop her sweetheart in fierce protection.

 

She would never quite be able to thank them enough for bringing Kai back to her.

_._

 

How could she possibly understand?

 

“Please, stop.”

 

How could she possibly understand the kinds of hell he’d been going through? The ridicule, the shame, the unending pains that were strangling him day in and day out?

 

And, how could she possibly ask everyone so very calmly about the personal hells they were living in?

 

“See, Gary?” This woman was just insistent that he should listen to her, demanding that he should care about what other people are going through when he’s drowning just as much as they are.

 

“Life is crap. Welcome to the human race.”

 

_If this is the human race, why should I keep living? Why even bother with all of this?_

 

“But the good news is, you’re not alone.”

 

That was her answer.

 

And, it was that smile, that hint that there was more than just that suffocating crappiness, that made him disarm the bomb.

 

_._

 

Every time he passed train stations for the next few months, his spine would tingle unwillingly.

 

He would have to step back, behind the pillars as the train cars rushed by. Have to remind himself not to go through with his plan. 

 

Have to refrain from disappointing his teacher.

 

_“If you think money can replace you… you haven’t seen the whole equation.”_

 

He actually couldn’t ride the trains for a solid week after  _that_ conversation. Couldn't look in the general of the subway stations, choosing instead to take buses or to just walk for hours on end.

 

_“Take it from someone who thought that leaving would make it easier on everyone and then learned otherwise.”_

 

So, when he sees that kid sit in that same spot -- give that same look towards the tracks that he did all those years ago -- he can’t just watch. He can’t just continue on in his life.

 

“This seat taken?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episodes referenced in order: Masquerade, Bad Code, RAM, Bury the Lede, The Perfect Mark, Cutesy little OC because we needed a fluff moment, Wolf and Cub, Provenance, If-Then-Else [probably the only true angsty one], and 2Pi R.
> 
> I really did want to incorporate more episodes moments into this piece, but I think I’ll save that for potential future fics :)


	99. The Unknowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka, Those They Couldn’t.

There would come a time when a telephone booth would shriek to no avail. 

 

A time where social security numbers would truly be irrelevant because there'd be no team for the Machine. 

 

_ “If you can hear this,” _

 

For all that The Machine had been able to see, there were still people it would never be able to save. 

 

People who couldn’t rise to the status of “Irrelevant” if only because there wasn't anyone who cared enough to make that distinction.

 

_ “You’re alone.”  _

 

Team Machine had never been perfect. Not when they were starting, not when they became comfortable.

 

And not when they had all finally died.

 

_ “The only thing left of me is the sound of my voice.” _

 

There’d been mistakes. Horrifying mistakes. Glorious mistakes.

 

Perpetrators mistakenly protected. 

 

Victims misfortunately lost.

 

_ “I don’t know if any of us made it.” _

 

There’d been loss. Disgusting loss.

 

_ Appropriate  _ loss.

 

_ “So let me tell you who we were...” _

 

But there had also been victories. Snatched at the last second, but victories nevertheless.

 

_ “And how we fought back.” _

 

Because, even with all of the encompassing failures, there still would be a chance to fight back.

 

And, maybe,

 

Just maybe, 

 

**_Win._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the final piece, I give you one of my favorite clues:
> 
> Never assume.
> 
> I also want to let you all know that I will not be responding to any comments until after tomorrow’s piece has been posted. This is merely because I love to surprise people -- and if I allow myself to respond before it’s all finally posted, I’m definitely going to give the final piece away.
> 
> Therefore, I hope you all have a lovely day/evening/time and I truly cannot wait to read your reactions after tomorrow’s piece is posted :)
> 
> Till tomorrow! <3


	100. Return to Zero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, last but never least:
> 
> My all-time favorite AU concept has been saved for the 100th piece. Be prepared for quite a lengthy piece, everyone -- I’ve been wanting to officially play with this concept for many years. 
> 
> Needless, to say this is an AU ;) :)
> 
> Now, I hope you enjoy all of the references to every single piece that are embedded in this final one. There’ll also be references to various episodes and various cameos/hints to some of the amazing fanfiction on this site. And, some familiar quotations -- fanon and canon -- will be purposefully altered at times. For even when we’re re-experiencing moments, it’s impossible to always repeat your exact words. In essence, this one’s a head-spinner, ladies and gentlemen.
> 
> As always, have an amazing day! 
> 
> Till next time! 
> 
> For, there will be a next time even if this collection is officially coming to an end ♥

_“When you find that one person who connects you to the world,”_

 

Whether that's through a purpose or a kiss.

 

_“You become someone different.”_

 

The world breathes in with you instead of exhaling you into a chaotic oblivion.

 

_“Someone better.”_

 

That's where he had been falling through for the last five years:

 

A chaotic oblivion.

 

_“When that person is_ **_returned_ ** _to you,”_

 

A flash of searing pain, embellished by a blinding light.

 

“ _What do you become_ _then?”_

 

…

 

The subway car rattled as it continued on its indifferent way, content to ignore its sole occupant.

 

But he couldn't ignore it.

 

The man unwillingly shook with surprise, immediately recognizing this moment and realizing where this was.

 

Or, rather, _when_ it was.

 

He knew that his last real memory was one of great lost -- of sacrifice.

 

He didn't know why he’d been sent back to this moment.

 

But…

 

This is where all of it began.

 

The doors began to shake, as naive boys pretending to be men walked into the train car.

 

Some things, like this particular moment, would probably have to stay the same.

 

To change everything would probably be a horrible idea.

 

“Where'd you get that? A cereal box?”

 

However, other things would definitely have to change.

 

For example, for Carter’s sake, he’d allow these idiots to land a real punch.

 

But _only_ one.

 

...

 

“You know, you could’ve done me a favor and let those guys land a few more punches.”

 

He openly smirked at this, knowing that he really wasn’t going to be making her life any easier from here on out.

 

But, he _would_ be doing her one favor in the future.

 

One he hadn’t quite been able to do the last time.

 

...

 

He’d walked towards the bridge, feeling as though he’d been dragged along this entire time.

 

Yeah, it was a little different so far -- Finch’s grunts had gotten lost this time around, he hadn’t accepted Joss’s drink -- but it was as though a string of some kind had decided to pull him along for the ride still.

 

Yet, walking forward and seeing Finch with his back to him…

 

It’s the first time he really feels like he’s in charge of his fate this time around.

 

...

 

“I think you're a selfish rich guy who likes to play with other people.” After all, this wasn't his Finch. This was someone who still had several years to realize that he didn’t have to be so damn paranoid, so infuriating cryptic, so exhaustingly cautious.

 

And, even if this were _his_ Finch, he’d probably still be having a difficult time keeping a lid on all of this.

 

It's just that John was still having a hard time dealing with the past -- the _future?_

 

He doesn’t really know what exactly is making this difficult.

 

_But,_ the ironic thought poked his brain in the background of everything, _I suppose I do have all the time in the world to figure it out._

 

_._

 

The first week he’s on edge. He’s pacing the library, exploring familiar weaknesses in the structure, forcing himself to remember and record any worthy detail.

 

All the while wondering if his being here was going to screw everything up.

 

“Mr. Reese, is there some sort of sniper hiding in the Library I should be aware of?”

 

The pacing halts for only a beat.

 

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

 

Finch relents his dry dismissal at this, stiffly conceding the point.

 

It’s clear by this that it is still going to take time for both of them to adjust.

 

_._

 

John doesn’t really want to scare Harold away. Doesn’t want Finch to continue erecting walls and he really doesn’t want to have to dance through all of those moments of, “You think I trust you? _Au contraire,_ Mr. Reese. And now I will give you 3,141,592 reasons as to why you are wrong.”

 

Nevertheless, John is still _completely_ willing as hell to sit in that cubicle and mercilessly tease the man about his past.

 

_._

 

“What did he say?”

 

John resisted the urge to cry.

 

This had been one of the good ones.

 

“That we don't need to worry. He might even help us someday.”

 

“I was listening to your conversation, Mr. Reese.”

 

“I was reading between the lines.”

 

He observed Harold, feeling far calmer than he had expected. Upon entering the diner, there had been a few moments where his heart wanted to speed up to an exhilarating -- aka, _terrifying_ \-- rate.

 

Because, if he wasn't able to start earning Harold’s trust a second time around… Well, he didn't want to think about that.

 

So, he went back to observing.

 

“I suppose only time will tell which one of us is right.” The reclusive man readied himself to leave, and this time it had almost been too late.

 

“Thank you.” The words managed to fight a constricting throat and free themselves once again.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“For giving me a job.”

 

There was a pause. A calculation. A _decision_.

 

“Try the Eggs Benedict, Mr. Reese. I've had them many times.”

 

The man left, allowing John to do whatever he pleased with that information.

 

He merely breathed, closings his eyes. The menu would be opened in a few moments, but this time he was going to take him time.

 

_If it's not the same, it just means you have to try something different. Adapt,_ he paused to bemusedly chuckle in his thoughts, _like a Finch._

 

The menu remained shut by an almost trembling hand.

 

But, after a minute, it slowly opened seemingly of its own accord.

 

Eyes opened to absorb _that_ particular page of the menu. And his heart soared at the lack of a face.

 

The lack of a Number.

 

That echoing comment had once again been the starting hint of _trust._ So this time, John allowed the tears to freely flow through his hidden smile.

 

He had miles to go before he slept, as Harold would have quoted. But, he also had a few magic tricks up his sleeve. A few hints of the potential future.

 

And, as sappy and cliche as it may seem, John did have hope.

 

_._

 

They were late, much to his irritation.

 

In fact, Reese had wondered if he had been a little too eager about this particular mission.

 

“Hey, Bunny!” _Well, not right on time. But, this_ is _Lionel I’m dealing with._ “Can my son take a picture with you?”

 

_._

 

John stepped forward, purple glove and silver bag in hand.

 

It had only taken a brief one-sided conversation with the Machine to gain entry to an isolated warehouse in the middle-of-nowhere, South Dakota.

 

After all, he was _never_ letting Harold even know of that artifact’s existence, let alone get near it.

 

So, when Agent Nielsen showed up only a few hours later -- apparently, he had just so happened to be passing by -- John was all too happy to send the damn artifact back to where it belonged.

 

_._

 

He stepped off the ferry, a mixture of anger and regret at letting Elias go once again.

 

Yeah, Elias isn't so bad in the end but letting him walk away -- when nothing’s a real guarantee in this world -- still felt too damn risky.

 

But, it is a lesson to remember -- that they don’t have control over the information.

 

They only have control over what they _do_ about the information.

 

_._

 

_102 degrees, check. Hot, sweaty day with no break in sight, double check._

 

_Operation: Shirtsleeves is a go._

 

Absolute cleverness would be necessary for this particular mission. If he timed this incorrectly, it'd result in getting snapped at by an irate Finch.

 

But, if this were a success… he’d have blackmail material for a very, very long time.

 

After all, pictures were an excellent way of capturing moments.

 

And Harold looking like he's ready to fly to the nearest phone booth would be a fantastic reminder that it's the simple things in life you treasure.

 

_._

 

Leave it to Lionel to smugly rub in the fact that Harold caught on to one of John’s more _invasive_ surveillance techniques.

 

“I will shoot you, Detective.” _Especially if you don't shut up._ Fusco came to a halt at this.

 

Only to pick back up where he left off.

 

“No need to be such a spoilsport, _John_.”

 

_._

 

He finds the sleepwalking books with ridiculous ease. The old arguments come back, and this time it will be John who has no problem with information. This time, John is going to hold all the cards, all the details.

 

And this time it will be John that Harold listens to.

 

**_._**

 

“Look around, Finch. Is anyone watching your guy?”

 

_“I’m not exactly good at this, Mr. Reese.”_

 

John held off from remarking that he’d have years to improve, but that refrainment did take some effort.

 

_“No, no one I can see.”_

 

Something was bothering him. He knew that only in a little while would Carter be selling him out and he’d be getting shot.

 

But there was something else that had been concerning in the other world. There had been something that had really concerned the vigilante and it was irritating to know that he was missing something.

 

“Well, keep your eyes open, Finch.” Lionel was now calling. “And, call me back.”

 

He composed himself, squashing down the uncertainty while picking up Fusco’s call.

 

“Lionel?”

 

_“Yeah, that Paula girl? I lost her. She gave me the slip.”_

 

“Well, good work, Detective.”

 

_“I’m sorry, okay? Look, there’s another thing. I think she bought a firearm.”_

 

_Oh hell no._

 

“You lost her and she weaponed up? My advice, Lionel: stick to your--” He’d turned around, realizing he just lost his target. “-- day job.”

 

He hung up on the Detective, now focused on making sure he hadn’t screwed up too much.

 

“Excuse me, I’m waiting for Wendy.”

 

“I’m sorry, she had an emergency and had to rush off.” He needed to call up Harold. Something was definitely wrong. “I’m free if you’d like.”

“No, thanks.” Already, he was in business mode. “Hi, Finch, what do you got?”

 

_“Our man is coming out of the showroom. He’d placed his order and left a deposit.”_

 

“Okay, stay on him.” _What the hell am I forgetting?_ “Both girls just gave us the slip.”

 

_“Hold on, someone just left a stroller.”_

 

_… A stroller?_

 

“... Say that again, Finch?”

 

That detail was ringing an answer that didn’t want to be called for some reason.

 

_“There’s a baby stroller near the car. I don’t know--_

 

He remembered.

 

“Get down on the ground, Finch.” Already, he was out of the saloon.

 

_“I have to warn him!”_

 

“Finch, Finch! Get down on the ground!”

 

He heard the explosion.

 

“Finch, are you okay?”

 

No response.

 

_How the hell did he_ **_not_ ** _remember this?_

 

“Harold?”

 

He could only hope that Harold lucked out a second time and that there was no serious damage. Though, he still believed that the man should be resting instead of just charging back into the Numbers -- especially with all of his injuries.

 

And, to think that this was only the start of the the day’s real action.

 

**_._**

 

_You can't always be right, Joss._

 

He trudged down the stairs, feeling the stinging blood slide down his body.

 

_But, you can redeem yourself._

 

Harold would soon be here, and he wouldn't have to keep holding on.

 

_And you won't always be wrong._

 

He just had to keep it together for another thirty seconds.

 

_And, either way, you should_ **_always_ ** _trust yourself._

 

_._

 

_“Mr. Reese,”_ The tone was deceptively calm, but John had been absorbing Harold’s habits for many years now. He knew that man’s version of panic. _“It seems I might be needing your assistance today, after all.”_

 

Fortunately, his gut warned him to be near Finch today. Fuzzy memories had wrapped themselves around his core, reminding him that there was something _crucial_ to keep in mind today.

 

“I’m only a minute away, Finch.”

 

_._

 

Sometimes John contemplated the logistics behind kidnapping Harold himself and saving them a lot of issues.

 

They wouldn't have to deal with Root, they could even kidnap Grace before Samaritan got to her, and a lot of drama would be thrown out of their lives if he just kidnapped Harold.

 

But, as tempting as it'd be, there would be three problems:

 

  1. Harold would demand to know why and he really couldn't lie.
  2. The steps they'd taken in building trust would be all for nothing
  3. Changing the future would mean letting go of his knowledge and that was a hell of a risk.



 

_._

 

“Anything I can do to help?”

 

They stood in the paranoid shadows of the now gloomy Library.

 

And, while John knew that they weren’t at a good level of trust with one another just yet, that Harold definitely needed a massage.

 

After he was done being “Paranoid Finch” with his technology, that is.

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese, there is.”

 

His boss handed him a slip of paper.

 

“New Number, just came in this morning.”

 

“ _Even_ with the library offline?” Finch ignored this, though John didn’t really expect otherwise.

 

“His name is Darren McGrady, he’s fourteen years old. That’s his last known address.”

 

_Oh. This one._

 

This was a good one.

 

_._

 

It is disappointing that Lionel has to prove himself over and over again -- regardless of the universe. That he has to reach into that disgusting dirt once again.

 

This time, John’s got more sympathy for the situation even if he acts as merciless as he did the last time.

_._

 

“Finch, you ever consider singing Leila a lullaby to calm her down?”

 

“Mr. Reese,” Surprise was always a delectable sound when it came to Finch’s tone. “I can't imagine my voice would be able to do that.”

 

“You never know until you try, _Harold_.” Then billionaire in question fixed his employer with an inquisitive, wary stare.

 

“That almost sounded a little risqué, Mr. Reese?”

 

_Hell yes it did._

 

He knew he had to practice patience, but that didn’t mean John couldn’t hint at anything.

 

But, for now, he would settle for an innocent shrug. A _“Who, Me?”_ sort of expression, even.

 

Harold was not fooled for a moment.

 

_._

 

He entered the car with anticipation, knowing that everything would probably be okay as long as he didn’t try to change anything.

 

The only thing is that John was sure to do differently was to take his sweet time as they passed that particular bookstore.

 

_“Booook!”_

 

“Right on time, Harold.” Came the delighted murmur, as the sounds of glass being prodded vibrated throughout the car.

 

_._

 

It’s his birthday today and all he wants is to stay in bed.

 

“Morning, Finch.”

 

He still got up bright and early, he still glanced over a book -- and, yes, he had reached for _Stress Fractures in Titanium_ once again -- and he still waited for it all to begin.

 

But, he wanted to try something a little different this time around.

 

“I see you’re off to an early start, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Maybe I’m trying to impress the boss.”

 

_Or, maybe I’m just trying to move the boss along a little faster this time around._

 

“Should’ve called first. As it stands, our docket is clear.”

 

Now, he could call Finch out right here, right now.

 

But, even though he wants to challenge of this, he’s willing to do it with some finesse.

 

“We don’t have a Number?”

 

“You almost sound disappointed.”

 

“Oh, just a little surprised.” He glanced back at the book, taking care to take his time. “No one in New York is in danger or planning to hurt someone?”

 

“If they are, they’re keeping it to themselves.”

 

“Anyway, I think you’ve earned some time off. Especially today.”

 

John glanced back at his employer, trying to bring back his initial hesitancy at that reveal of information.

 

He could only manage a breath of wariness that was desperately trying not to exhale fondness at this.

 

“Or did you think I didn’t know?” At this, Harold gave him one of the biggest smiles he’d seen to date, and revealed that little black box.

 

John thinly smiled at this, knowing for a fact that it was a key inside and sadly not a ring.

 

But, then his smile grew into a hesitant beam because it was wonderful to finally have his apartment back.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome. Now, go! Do whatever it is that you do when you’re not here.” A quirked eyebrow emerged at this.

 

“I respect your privacy, John.”

 

_“Obviously.”_

 

He started heading out to return the book, having temporarily lost his drive to push their boundaries.

 

But….

 

“Would you like to tag along?”

 

Harold looked up, thrown off by this invitation.

 

This chance to not go down through the issue of trust that had thrown them for such a loop last time.

 

“Some other time, Mr. Reese.” The cautious man eventually said, though the upward twitch in his lips had surfaced at this question -- even as his eyes still spoke of uncertainty.

 

The fact that he was not flat-out rejected was definitely something.

 

The fact that they were still going to have to walk through his past -- that they couldn’t leave the half-lies or the memories that Jessica would inevitably bring up -- well… this was still the beginning for them.

 

__.__

 

And, she had _still_ gotten to him.

 

John was still unable to stop Root from kidnapping Finch and taking him away.

 

He still had to be Leon’s vigilante equivalent of a   _fairy godmother_ \-- much to his immense irritation.

 

And, getting Bear and seeing Fusco with gag for a second time was only slightly worth such failure. After all, he _knew_ what was going to happen.

 

But, if all turned out okay, then it’d only be a few minutes before he’d be able to pull Harold off the floor and into his arms.

 

Because John would be damned if all he’d be exchanging today was heartfelt conversation. He couldn’t push the exhausted man too far today. But he couldn’t just gruffly hide behind witty comments that barely reflected his worry.

 

And, when it was time for Harold’s recovery, he’d be there every step of the way.

 

After all, being one step behind in this regard would _never_ work for him again.

 

_._

 

He harshly glared up at the surveillance camera. One of the thousand eyes watching him in a city of millions.

 

Mass surveillance and cryptic technology aside, John needed to have a conversation.

 

_._

 

“ _Please,_ ” The whispered cry began, as the cot shook with fear. “Please, _not_ John. Please, Miss Turing, _don’t_ do this.”

 

John had been right to stay in the Library tonight.

 

_._

 

“Finch, it's time to get you back.”

 

And, as much as he’d love to force Harold to just hug it out with Bear already, he needed Harold to take step out of his shock and back into life first.

 

_._

 

“Did you ever Trick or Treat, Finch?”

 

It’s really going to take all of his willpower _not_ to quote with Harold when he starts to explain Guy Fawkes day this time.

 

_._

 

“What’s wrong with Detective Carter, Detective?”

 

He had been cleaning a gun, surreptitiously doing so in a section of the library where he could still hear everything Finch does.

 

“You say she’s clearly under the weather?” Harold pauses, and John almost leans in his direction --  as though he could hear what Lionel has to say. “Alright, we’ll be sure to put something together for her.”

 

The introvert went back to typing something for a few more moments.

 

“Thank you for this information, Detective. Take care.” John waited a beat, trying to decipher what was going to happen next.

 

“Mr. Reese, if you would be so kind as to step away from your arsenal of mass destruction, there’s a request I’d like to ask of you.” He’s already rising out of his chair, gun cleaned and safely stowed away. “It involves Detective Carter, but she is quite alright. Merely under the weather.”

 

“What do you need me to do?”

 

**_._**

 

“So, shall I pay this out of petty cash?” Go figure that he managed to park in a no-parking zone again.

 

“It’s harder to tail someone in the suburbs than it is in the city.”

 

“I heard. Your Man-in-the-Suit routine doesn’t exactly play out there.”

 

He still couldn’t figure out how the hell he managed to park in the no-parking zone _again_.

 

“As it happens, there’s a quaint three-bedroom that’s just gone on the market across from the Wyler’s home. You can move in tomorrow.”

 

“Move in?” This time, he’s not struck by surprise.

 

He’s struck by a new idea.

 

“You’re gonna be neighbors. I also procured a new vehicle, an appropriate wardrobe, and a set of golf clubs.” John wanted to smile at how refreshing it was to hear Harold’s perfectionist tendencies resurface.

 

He could only stare blankly.

 

“There is, however, one element of your cover that you’ll have to acquire on your own.”

 

…

 

When Harold later returns to the Library that next day, John is waiting there. Has been for quite some time in fact.

 

“Were you successful in acquiring that other element, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Dunno, Finch. I haven’t asked him yet.”

 

The look of astonishment had John cackling on the inside.

 

“No worries, Harold. You don’t have to wear a ring.” _When I feel you’re ready for me to propose, it’ll be a hell of a lot better than this._

 

_._

 

“Look, Harold, if I could learn to do this, you could learn to do this.”

 

“Somehow, I doubt this to be the case, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Do I have to be your cheerleader?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“When it comes to human interaction, do I have to be your cheerleader?”

 

“I’m not really sure that will be necessary, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Great. So, you admit that socialization isn’t so bad? It’s definitely not war, Harold.”

 

“I’m refraining from agreeing with your statement only because of the so-callled ‘bang, bang’s of rejection. As you undoubtedly know, those can be quite… distasteful.”

 

“Well, in that case, I guess I’ll just have to work a little harder.”

 

“In what way?”

 

“Well, when you finally realize how simple it all really is, the desire to ‘engage in human interaction’ will probably come more often.”

 

“I didn’t realize you were so desperate to get out of the house you’d be willing to debate with me when it comes to accompanying you to a Jewish celebration.”

 

“Chanukah is an quite interesting holiday, Finch, and something tells me you’ve never properly celebrated it. Besides, I like the idea of freedom finally being won.”

 

“... I suppose I have no arguments for wanting some form of freedom being won. But, I must inform you that freedom is in fact a social construct, Mr. Reese--”  
  
“So, does that mean you’ll go?”

 

_._

 

When the first snowfall fell, so did his first snowball.

 

The retaliation soon followed, and it was with a gleeful heart that he reprised the moment.

 

“My dear Detective Carter,” He gave more pause than he had before, seizing up any opportunity for dramatic effect. “Is _that_ a challenge?”

 

_._

He really hadn't meant to bump paths into Zoe tonight, but when your Number bumps into her client there's not much you can do.

 

He quietly stood next to her, watching the two men interact with detachment. Yes, it was important to watch them interact, but this whole night brought a question that he hadn't had in quite some time.

 

“Is there anyone you don't work for, Zoe?”

 

She glanced at him, as though debating on whether or not she should give him a hard time or a straight answer.

 

“Kleptomaniacs.” She eventually answered, noticing that this got a jolt -- a jolt for an ex-assassin, aka a suddenly raised eyebrow -- out of the man.

 

_“Really?”_

 

“Well, John,” She paused, a smirk reflecting in her watchful eyes. “They always take things literally.”

 

And did her ears just deceive her, or did he just give some sort of a raspy snort?

 

_._

 

Although his eyes maintained their gaze mostly on Caleb, Harold had been speaking to the entire class.

 

And he truly meant it when he uttered those powerful words. That, “All the world’s infinite possibilities rest within this one simple circle.”

 

Because in those infinite combinations of possibility, there was the one reality in which they all took the moral of the story from this simple math lesson:

 

You are not stuck with your circumstances, with your obstacles.

 

You have possibility and the ability to grasp and adapt to information at your fingertips.

 

But it truly is up to you as to what you do with all of that potential.

 

“I just hoped someone in that room was listening.” Harold would later confess during a lull in cases. John smiles at this, knowing that Harold was more inspirational than he sometimes led himself to believe.

 

“I’m sure at least someone was.” But, Harold still wasn’t content to believe in John. In fact, he was even intimidated by John’s pure honesty.

 

Which meant that Finch felt as though he had to fly out of the topic and replace it with something far more his style.

 

“You know, you seem incredibly calm for someone who just escaped Rikers, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Well, Finch, I'm sure Rikers has nothing on being a substitute teacher.”

 

“Maybe so.” He shuddered at a sudden thought. “At least it was math and not… gym class or some equivalent that I was substituting for.”

 

John paused, both tickled and slightly offended.

 

“Gym class would be an honor to substitute, Finch.” Harold glanced in his direction, curiosity pulling his gaze.

 

“Whatever makes you say that, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Gut feeling. I think it'd just be a matter of showing them who's boss.”

 

“Just because underhanded _manipulations_ recently worked with the FBI does not mean you should try that with impressionable minds, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Point taken, Harold.”

 

_._

 

“So, I see I’m not too late.”

 

He should feel calmer than he is. After all, even though everything repeated itself once again, wouldn’t that mean everything would be okay? That Harold would manage to enter in that same combination once again and that they would be so very lucky to have survived again.

 

Well, the problem is that John has never been one to let fate dictate where he should go in life.

 

And, since he didn’t actually see the numbers his Harold would eventually input to save them… Let’s just say that if they actually survive this all once again, it’s going to be damn difficult not to want to kiss the man.

 

_._

 

“Nice night for a walk. Why didn’t you bring Bear?”

 

“Bear didn’t want to come.” _Huh?_ “I read that if there’s anxiety in the home it can make your pets become upset. Have you been under any excess stress?”

 

“You mean, besides being locked in an eleven by thirteen in Rikers and wearing a bomb vest in Manhattan?” _And keeping this whole time traveling thing a secret for how long now?_ “Not really.”

 

_._

 

“Mr. Reese,” It isn't quite the paranoid tone it has been, but disconcertion still rigidly paints it. “It's almost unbelievable how perfect your timing has always been.”

 

“Well, Finch, maybe I'm secretly a superhero in disguise.” Finch scoffs at this, unwilling to humor his employee.

 

“The Superman in a Suit? It's far more likely that you’ve decided to breach the space-time continuum, Mr. Reese.” John freezes at this off-hand remark, not being able to take it as the joke it’s supposed to be.

 

“Yeah, well, promise me that _you_ won’t ever do that.” The humor had left the room at this sharp tone. Harold does a double-take at this, files it away for future reference, and proceeds to change subjects.

 

John knows what happens and just goes along.

 

**_._**

 

“So, Finch,” He slyly approached the man, enjoying the fact that this was today’s Number. “What if I were to tell you I really had no idea that there was even a difference between _Star Wars_ and _Star Trek_? One of them is about dramatically going somewhere and the others about war?”

 

Harold took that knowledge surprisingly well, even as he glanced back with faint frustration.

 

“Somehow, that’s not all that difficult to believe, Mr. Reese. And, _Star Trek_ is actually about ‘Boldly going where no one has gone before’, and ‘charting the unknown possibilities of existence’. _Star Wars_ , on the other hand, is far more than just a war. In fact,” Harold rambled on, determined to educate his employee and quite oblivious to the growing smile on John’s face.

 

“... Which is why the Prime Directive is actually partial inspiration behind my ethics when it came to creating the Machine.” The man eventually finished, after a good five minute lecture on the subjects.

 

“Yup. Didn’t catch a word of that.” A groan of irritation sounded at this, and the smile expanded into a playful grin.

 

_._

 

He watched as Harold stepped into the Library, calmly.

 

“I heard what Lou said to you.” His friend immediately froze at this, stunned by this admission.

 

_Please, let_ **_me_ ** _be lucky this time, Harold. That’s all I ask._

 

He wasn't going all out, but he was going out on a limb by venturing down the conversation again.

 

“... You were listening?”

 

_“Always.”_

 

_And I always will, if you let me._

 

_._

 

This time, he wasn’t prepared to be shot.

 

It hadn’t been a case worthy of note, nothing that had ever required his attention the first time around.

 

He’s lucky: it’s not fatal.

 

It’s just a reminder not to screw around.

 

_._

 

He hadn’t called her up this time. This time, John made sure not to get in the way of Zoe’s desire for her chocolate by waiting a little longer than he would’ve originally.

 

_._

 

“A business card, Mr. Reese?” _Disbelief._

 

“Yes, Finch: A business card. Something we could hand to Numbers if we’re really running short on time and patience.”

 

“And what should we advertise on this business card? The Library’s location?”

 

John laughed at this, remembering how annoyed Harold had initially been with this suggestion.

 

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Reese? Somehow, I don’t find any humor in the situation.”

 

_Some things never change_.

 

“Yeah, Finch. I’m alright. And, actually, how do you feel about putting together a cleaning service for the detectives?”

 

“And, what would this cleaning service be called? I have doubts there’s any service out there that would grasp the delicate nature of our situation.”

 

“I was thinking something like _Wren Incorporated_. _”_

 

“... _Wren Incorporated_?”

 

“Yeah, so they could make our homes less like a bird’s nest?”

 

_._

 

John hadn’t been prepared for the call. He wasn’t at all ready to come to Leila’s rescue out of the blue once again.

 

But he’d be damn if he didn’t help the girl when Sammy and Vera had finally called.

 

_._

 

“Geeeeeze, you know I thought you were a pretty cold guy. But _then_ I had to go through LaGuardia and let me tell you that I had to sit next to an even _colder_ guy for several hours and…”

 

The sooner Leon would shut up, the sooner John could go back to not wanting to strangle the scammer.

 

_._

 

The leash was handed off with ease, though the one in charge of Bear never changed.

 

“Be sure to enjoy all of the attention, Lionel.” A smirk emerged as eyes rolled.

 

“Ah, shut up. Just hand over the mutt.”   

 

_._

 

“John,” Carter’s tone held not only a warning but also a tinge of frustration.

 

He was immediately focused.

 

“What’s wrong, Detective?” She sighed, shaking her head in disbelief at the memory of something.

 

“If Taylor mentions anything about Vikings today, do me a favor and ignore him, alright?”

 

He had no reason to interact with her son today, as far as he knew.

 

But, judging from her exasperation, he’d be following her orders to the letter.

 

… How Vikings and her son connected, he really didn’t want to know.

 

_._

 

There’s something unusual that he wants to do differently in this world.

 

“Mr. Reese?”

 

That is the only reason why he’s standing in front of Finch with a bag filled with feminine hygiene products.

 

“I think it’ll prove useful to stock up, Finch. You never know.”

 

And Harold definitely wants to question.

 

But, much to both men’s relief, the topic is never brought up again for at least a year.

 

_._

 

“Know any jokes, Finch?”

 

The man’s immediate look of disinterest only pushed John to keep pursuing this avenue.

 

“I’m sure you’ve got something funny up your sleeve, Harold.”

 

Harold turned to him, gave one of those sardonic looks that no one else could quite replicate, and spoke in a dry deadpan.

 

“If you insist.” He paused, as though giving his employee one more way out of this.

 

John didn’t say a word.

 

“Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of his life. This, of course, produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail. Furthermore, with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath. Consequently, this made him a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.”

 

John continued to stare at this, not believing what had quite happened.

 

“You asked for a joke, Mr. Reese. You never said it had to be good.” It’s that statement that coaxes a soft chuckle to emerge.

 

“... Now _that’s_ funny, Harold.”

 

_._

 

There was always the chance of a slip-up, of a wrong move on his part. Sometimes, the two realities blended seamlessly into one another, and sometimes it was nearly impossible to not give the truth away.

 

He could only hope that when he eventually did -- for this was something that Harold would have to know at some point -- the man would not despise him for the secrecy.

 

Though, this was the man who was seemingly content to get married under a fake name in another life. So, maybe, just maybe, this all wasn’t going to go to hell once the truth was out.

 

Either way, for now John is really content to just let his secret be.

 

_._

 

“Finch, you sure you're alright?”

 

They had to call in their friends a lot sooner than anticipated -- John had to chase after one Number while Harold ventured down in the direction of the precinct to enlist the help.

 

Which was all fine and dandy until a thunderstorm  decided to explode on them.

 

_“Quite fine, Mr. Reese. I did bring an umbrella, although it's looks as though Detective Fusco did not have such foresight.”_

 

“Oh?”

 

_“Indeed. Have no fear, I've no interest in our detective catching pneumonia. I'll be rescuing him momentarily.”_

 

Not that he expected anything less.

 

_._

 

He breathes in an intoxicating sigh of relief, drinking in the smell of fresh rain and letting it ease the day’s burden off his shoulders.

 

“Mr. Reese,” An incredulous whisper revisits his ear. John looks at Harold before following his gaze to the magnificent rainbow scattering itself across the sky.

 

He feels his eyes widen. His hand becomes tightly gripped. And his breath is soon stolen by the beautiful laughter escaping his friend.

 

It was a glorious moment, one he felt wonderfully blessed to recapture.

 

And it still had absolutely _nothing_ on the first time.

 

_._

 

Even though different warriors were falling in this world, that didn’t mean John couldn’t go pay his respects.

 

Even if he tried to save those he couldn’t, someone else had to die.

 

So, he still visited the graves. He still held a moment of silence in the memory of loss, and he still held to the responsibility of paying respects.

 

_._

 

When he discovered _Person of Interest_ didn’t exist in this universe, John had actually been disappointed.

 

He had been looking forward to teasing Harold about that one for _weeks_.

 

_._

 

“Where’s Detective Carter?” Fusco’s eyes widened at this seemingly innocuous question.

 

“Well, uh, ya see,” Now John was concerned.

 

“Where is Carter, Lionel?” It was a silky whisper that promised immense pain if there wasn’t a good answer.

 

“She took the day off.” The mumble was quick and John almost didn’t believe it. He’d never known Joss to take a day off, unless--

 

“What happened to Taylor?” At this, Fusco does a double take.

 

“Nothing’s wrong with Taylor!... Carter just wasn’t in the best of moods.”

 

The detective was only given a cold stare that resulted in another muttering.

 

“I didn’t quite catch that, _Detective._ ”

 

“It’s… it’s that time of the month.” Lionel finally said, embarrassed to say the least. “You know, her period--”

 

“I understand, Detective.” And he was now proceeding to wish he hadn’t quite heard that last bit.

 

Well, at least now was as good a time as any to slink back into the shadows and pretend that particular conversation never happened.

 

**_._**

 

“You must miss her, Finch.” Harold looked up from examining the latest magazine cover, mesmerizing blues swirling into delicate green to create refreshing art.

 

“Yes, well, it is what it is.” It was an off-hand comment, but one belied by a droop in posture. And, for one moment, the man looked so faded -- so worn down by the past -- that he almost looked like a ghost.

 

But, John was content to leave the moment alone.

 

He, too, knew what it was like to be haunted by the grief.

 

_._

 

“You know, it’s funny. Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you’re in trouble. So, am I in trouble?”

 

_And, will_ you _be in trouble? Will I have to need_ your _name?_

 

He smiled playfully at their light banter, struggling to not show a single ounce of the fear that latched onto him ever since the day began.

 

He still had many of his own wrongs to right.

 

And this was definitely one of them.

 

…

 

He convinces her to not turn the corner, forcing her to stay back.

 

He doesn’t want to reveal to her all of his secrets -- if he can’t even trust Harold, he’s sure as hell not willing to trust anyone with those details -- but he can’t let her die.

 

“Something feels off,” He stops her.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He looks around the corner, seeing something move in the shadows.

 

He knows it’s Simmons without actually needing to see him. And convincing Carter to grab her weapon and take a peek around the corner is a piece of cake once adrenaline starts kicking in.

 

He tries to shoot at them, grazing John and just missing Joss.

 

But she nails him on instinct, forcing Simmons to the ground.

 

And this time, John doesn’t stop himself from hugging her out of relief.

 

And, what will he now do about Italy and the Sphinx?

 

Well, proper authorities can always be delivered an anonymous tip.

 

And, he and Finch have been meaning to visit Italy for some time now, if anything.

_._

 

“Finch?”

 

The man in question was standing around the room, almost swaying to the sounds of invisible music.

 

“Together in New York. _Together_ in New York.”

 

It was one of the weirdest sleepwalking dreams he’d witnessed.

 

But the man’s unusually ecstatic glow that fills up the shadowy room with rays of livelihood make it all the more worthwhile.

 

“Yeah, Harold. We _are_ together in New York.” The swaying man looked back at John, that familiar glazy expression containing a widening beam of joy.

 

_._

 

“Finch,” This time, it was Harold who had been injured. “You really need to be more careful.”

 

“Really, Mr. Reese, this is hardly a flesh wound. And, considering that I have similar reservations about your encounters, I would say this moment is akin to the pot calling the kettle black.”

 

“Maybe so. But, cats have nine lives. Not birds. And, Finch,” His hand brushed up against the man’s shoulders, drawing a shudder of desire.

 

He leaned in, knowing full well how the man felt about his voice. “I would like my bird to stay in one piece.”

 

The man stiffened at the intimacy, a blush creeping up in his neck. They stayed in that position for a solid few second, letting the air of temptation float around them.

 

“For the love of--- will you two just get a room?”

 

Leave it to Shaw to kill the vibe.

 

Harold immediately retracted as though shot at. John could only inwardly sigh, knowing that this little moment was going to set them back a few paces.

 

The vigilante could only hope she’d be tricking them into that closet soon.

 

_._

 

“Watch out for the debris, detective.” The detective stops at this, doing a double take before staring at John.

 

“Say that again?” John comes to a stop as well, confused as to why Lionel was acting that way.

 

“What confused you, _Lionel?”_ But Fusco was already shrugging off the remark, murmuring something about his son and cheese.

 

_._

 

_“It appears Miss Shaw is having difficulties with her assignment.”_

 

_Difficulties? Shaw?_

 

John immediately halted in his tracks, wracking his brain for when this was in the alternate timeline.

 

Root still hadn’t joined the team, HR was still in the background for the most part, and the current Numbers seemed simplistic enough.

 

Nothing compared to Samaritan, that is.

 

So either he did screw up majorly by changing the past -- the future? -- or something else was going on.

 

“What do you mean, Finch?”

 

_Please let it be something else._

 

_“It seems she is struggling with the concept of appreciating the art of amateur theatre.”_ Already, John was silently exhaling in relief. _“More specifically, she is failing to appreciate elementary school musicals.”_

 

This time he couldn't resist the snicker of amusement.

 

_“Mr. Reese,”_ The reprimand was sharp, like the beak of an irate bird. “ _Would you prefer to switch assignments?”_

 

_._

 

“Detective,” The detective turned around to glance at John, a scoff ready to be released.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Said scoff was promptly bowled over by an empowering, stunning hug.

 

“You did good with HR. And, you are still doing good, Lionel.” Fusco went still, shock crashing into his body. But that didn’t stop John.

 

Because he remembered hearing what his friend had to experience that one particularly horrifying night. How Lee had almost died and how his future partner was pushed to horrifying extremes.

 

And John knew that if it had been him, if Harold was the one being threatened….

 

“But, Lionel,” The man still hadn’t unstiffened, though the hug was already over. “If you ever mention this to anyone--”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” But the detective’s bite was severely lacking. And John’s suit jacket was suspiciously wet. “A slow death or slow torture. Either way I’ll be in a lotta pain.”

 

_._

 

The pool table beckons them away from the bar area and John studies it with interest.

 

“Ever play before, Finch?” Harold knowingly looks at him before turning to the table in an almost wistful manner.

 

“Not in many years, Mr. Reese.”

 

**_._**

 

When they had seen _Desk Set_ , John knew it was only a matter of time.

 

“So, what exactly _is_ the moral of the story, Mr. Reese?” He really couldn’t help but grin like a fool this time, unashamedly enjoying the intimate space of the closet they'd almost been shoved into.

 

“Never assume.”

 

Give this only a few minutes, a few subtle risqué hints, and the chance he’d been waiting more than two years for would finally arrive.

 

The jacket slipped off with ease, with John’s only regret being that the rest of their clothes couldn't also be shucked away so quickly.

 

But, Harold was unfamiliar with this situation. And John really couldn't assume he’d be able to take a chance if he first didn't take his time.

 

He did feel sorry, remembering how much pain Harold had been in -- something the man had only confessed to years later. However, upon feeling that shiver of delight, John knew this would be okay.

 

“Are you okay, Harold?”

 

“I’m quite fine, Mr. Reese.” John almost pouted at the formality rearing its ugly head once again, having to remind himself that Harold had no idea of their future.

 

Truly, the socially awkward billionaire’s further stiffening almost deterred the vigilante from even making a move this time around.

 

But, then came that familiar trembling sigh of _relief_.

 

And then all bets were off.

 

__.__

 

“We’ve received two numbers today,”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, Lynn Tholden and Deane Garlottis. Now,” As Harold began to elaborate on today’s case, John froze.

 

He really didn’t want to stop another catfight again. Because, at first it had seemed like it was only going to be a punch and that would be it. But, only moments after Harold had reprimanded him in the other world, a catfight broke out between the two esteemed professors.

 

“Is there a problem, Mr. Reese?”

 

__.__

 

“Hey, Finch,” Shaw seemed to be in the mood for some sort of a joke, even as she and Reese were ready to mow down several bad guys.

 

“What's black,” She shot before John had a chance to do anything.

 

“White,” _When did she have time to sneak a knife into this?_

 

“And, red all over?” Reese made sure to take care of the last guy while Shaw listened to a response that had her smirk widen so much more than John thought possible.

 

__.__

 

“Where's Fusco, Finch?”

 

_“I gave the detective the day off, Mr. Reese.”_

 

“Oh? And how did he take that?”

 

_“Quite well, in fact.”_

 

“You didn't actually tell him he had the day off, did you?”

 

_“No, Mr. Reese, I did not. But, the detective is an intelligent individual at times.”_

 

“And if his schedule just so happens to give him a break, he's not going to question it.”

 

_“...”_

 

_._

 

_Choose your next words very carefully, Mr. Reese.”_

 

“ _Yeah, Mr. Reese.”_

 

John resisted the urge to growl this time, knowing fully well that he would be receiving a photo of Shaw in the bunny suit so long as he didn’t.

 

_“Childishly moping is not an appropriate response, Mr. Reese.”_

 

Well, apparently he had taken too long to respond either way.

 

_._

 

He really didn't have anything against her this time, not really.

 

Oh, it's true that on his bad days he still considered the possibility that Harold would be taken, that _this_ Root was not to be trusted.

 

But, he had fought with the woman. And he continues to fight alongside with Root every day now.

 

So, he can't really have anything against her.

 

**_._**

“Just as Claire has made her decision, I've made mine.”

 

Those words struck far more of a chord than John ever thought possible. In fact, so much so that as Harold began to hobble away, John could only watch in relief.

 

“C’mon, John,” Came the faintly wry remark at this. “There's something I want to show you.”

_._

 

It was all fine and dandy how similarly this was all playing -- except for a few wonderful changes here and there.

 

But, flirtations and potential realities were no longer going to suffice.

 

Confusing, diverting questions were not going to be the norm.

 

John had spent many years wondering about the nature of this particular relationship. Where it could possibly go, where it was supposed to be.

 

“Harold,”

 

It was time to stop wondering.

 

“I can’t ask anymore.”

 

The recluse looked up, understanding reflecting in his eyes and acceptance flooding into his face.

 

“Perhaps, Mr. Reese,” Harold spoke uncertainly, but seemed to be quite determined to at least try. “We could discuss this over coffee?”

 

_._

They had been walking by a crowd when she had bumped into them.

 

John only froze a moment at the recognition of Lynn, his eyes trailing after her as she watched her return to a party that was fully in swing.

 

But, it wasn’t time for her to officially catch their attention.

 

“What on earth is going on over there, do you suppose, Mr. Reese?”

 

Go figure Harold would still be curious enough to investigate.

 

“I’m not sure,” But he was already being cordially maneuvered in the direction of the street party.

 

After all, it was quite strange to see people publicly attempting to sing past 9pm on a Tuesday night.

 

“Alright, let’s try this one more time!” Her voice carried over the crowd of students, and the sound of some sort of pipe instrument -- something that seemed to carry the pitch of the key they were singing in -- slipped through the chatter.

 

Everyone began to quiet down as they caught wind of this note, and grins broke out amongst the students as Lynn began to conduct.

 

_“To the end!”_ It was an invigorating chorus of about twenty young voices that filled the air. Harold did a double take at this, and even John couldn’t help but stare curiously.

 

_“Friendship and love,”_ It was a soothing lyric, one that sent shivers of deja vu down John’s spine.

 

_To the end.”_  He couldn’t quite place the snippet of a song. And, even though there seemed to be only be four parts singing, he could swear he heard at least five.

 

But, no matter. That moment faded away as cheers of pride sounded from the singing group.

 

“Fascinating.” Harold murmured, tilting his head at the scene. He, too, seemed to be struck by some sort of familiarity.

 

“Can we sing ‘Lost’ now?” They overheard one of the students loudly ask, and John could see their future Number smile with pleasure.

 

“Shall we listen in for a few more moments, Harold?” The man turned at this, raising an eyebrow in faint amusement.

 

“Don’t we always, Mr. Reese?” But another pitch was being flung into the crowd and the students were getting ready to perform once again.

 

_“And I will wait to face the skies,”_

 

Immediately, they both come to a still.

 

_“Ever roaming in your eyes.”_

 

A dazzling sound vibrates through the air, as though it’s a five or six part piece even though there’s only four parts singing. A wonderfully chilling effect wraps itself around the two men.

 

_“There I go lost in your eyes.”_

 

John looks at Harold, loving every moment of this.

_._

 

Root was a magician. John was sure of it.

 

Sure, there was the impressive coding that only magic -- or Harold -- could create.

 

But, she had to be a magician in her own way.

 

Because nobody else could get Shaw to give even the faintest inclination of anything other than a glare.

 

Let alone a genuine, not-incredibly-ticked-off-at-anyone smile.

 

“Now, watch her pull a rabbit out of her hat.”

 

“What was that, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Nothing, Finch.” The quirked eyebrow still remained.

 

But even John knew how to make that disappear.

 

_._

 

_“Lioneeeeeeee!”_

 

He really should've been more careful. Unfortunately, being drugged once again made for an irritating time.

 

Fortunately, Lionel was still around to humiliate.

 

_._

 

“You okay?”

 

Sure, Root was her normal maniacal smiling self but she still seemed a little… off.

 

“Just peachy, John.” She verbally shrugged his concern off like it were a shawl.

 

He paused a moment, content to just study her.

 

He's not really sure what's wrong, but he knows something is.

 

And, even though it's not yet his time to be worried,

 

_._

 

“I know we don't get vacations, Harold,” An exhausted arm slips around a weary shoulder, “But have you ever considered just going away to Italy for a week?”

 

“Mr. Reese, as much as the idea has merit, I’m afraid that--”

 

“We could always just people-watch. Isn’t that what we do here?”

 

_._

 

“Miss Groves, how well can you sing?” John stiffened, scarring mental images of the things they did in that auditorium coming to mind.

 

“Depends, Harry.” The reclusive man bristled at this nickname, but John actually remembered why he was okay with living through this case again -- and why he could tolerate those images.

 

That was because Root and Shaw had… inspired him to try certain things out with Harold.

 

And, now, he had some further questions he wanted to _thoroughly_ investigate.

 

_._

 

John Reese was on a mission. There was truly no time for mistakes or letting civilians get in his way.

 

He was on an invigorating quest for _revenge_.

 

And, this time, when he finally achieved today’s purpose, he would be far more than just content.

 

He coolly approached the store, scanning the set-up for his purpose.

 

When he finds the bunny suit, a costume he hadn’t seen in years, he clutches the material as though it’s the answer to all of his future problems.

 

_._

 

When John drops by to intimida-- converse with his favorite ex-dirty cop, he's surprised to see Fusco isn't alone.

 

When the little girl could only cry into the detective’s beaten-up button up, the vigilante decides to leave the intimidation games for now and check in at a later.

 

If he also chooses to ignore the fact that Lionel’s eyes aren't really all that dry, well that’s another thing altogether.

 

_._

 

This was probably one of the few numbers that was content to absolutely ignore him.

 

“Look, Miss Feldon, you’re in danger.” The young woman ignored him, content to focus on her TV screen.

 

“That’s nice. But, is your name Maxwell Smart?”

 

“Well, no--”

 

“And do you care for either the number 86 or 99?”

 

“Not really, but--”

 

“Then, you rescuing me can wait at least until the commercial break.” She said, as he began to contemplate just picking her up and calling it a day. Especially seeing as how today’s bad guys just pulled up to the apartment complex.

 

Yeah, being Mr. Nice Vigilante was going to have to come to a temporary stop.

 

“Hey, wait a minute!” She shouted as he scooped her before throwing her over his shoulder like a potato sack. “You know, I called the cops before the _Get Smart_ marathon started, so there should be six cop cars coming this way!”

 

He ignored this remark, trying to figure out the best way to safely leave the building.

 

“... Would you believe three cop cars?”

 

_._

 

When Shaw came back to the station, debating with Root between the idea of savoring the steak for last or enjoying it first, John realized he didn’t want to know.

 

Then again, it wouldn’t matter. To Shaw, steak was like heaven on Earth.

 

Fortunately, John had his own heavenly taste to look forward to.

_._

 

Fusco glares from the hospital bed as John begins to hum “All You Need is Love”.

 

“Very funny.” Came the gruff retort to the only other occupant in the room.

 

It was another close shave, one that really didn’t seem to want to let the good detective escape death this time around.

 

But he pulled through, much to the team’s relief.

 

“Would you rather I make you chicken noodle soup, Lionel?”

 

“Ah, shut up.”

 

Neither of them would ever mention how much they needed this moment. How much they all needed moments like these.

 

_._

 

“Mr. Reese, apparently Mr. Tao needs your assistance.”

 

“Finch--”

 

“As much as I'm not interested in dealing with Mr. Tao’s antics, something tells me this time it's not a joke.”

 

…

 

“If I ever have to deal with T-Rexes again….”

 

“Mr. Reese, I don't believe I heard you correctly?”

 

“You did, Finch. You did.”

 

“... And, how--”

 

“You _don't_ want to know.”

 

_._

 

“She wanted you to pick up feathers?” _Why the hell did that sound so familiar?_

 

John scoured his brain, trying to figure out if there was some sort of crime he needed to remember that involved feathers but nothing was coming to mind.

 

_“Yeah. Huge ones bigger than ARs. Said she needed them to be in character.”_

 

Feathers… Big ones at that… _Oh._

 

“Well, I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll be able to handle it.” He certainly didn’t want to see that particular show.

 

He had heard about that incident from a drunk Shaw. Both his intoxicated colleague and her lewd comments on the subject were things he never wanted to think about again.

 

_._

 

“I promise, Finchy, you won’t regret this! I know I’ve said this in the past, but I really am turning over a new leaf.”

 

Letting Leon officially join the team was going to prove to be an error in judgment.

 

That was something John didn’t need to remember -- it was simply fact.

 

_._

 

“I think she's in trouble, Mr. Reese. Miss Groves hasn't responded to any communications in the last several hours.”

 

_Damn it, If we have to deal with Root experiencing amnesia again--_

 

“Language, Mr. Reese!” He didn’t realize the curse had been uttered aloud. Fortunately, the rest of that thought had been kept to himself. “I do not care for the spewing of such language.”

 

“Well, I hate to say this Finch, but right now we've got bigger concerns. But, if you really have an issue, I'll be glad to exchange words over the matter.”

 

“Quite right.” A pause. “Should we inform Miss Shaw? Perhaps, even bring her along?”

 

“Inform? Yes. Bring her along? Probably not the best idea. But,” He grimaced. “knowing Shaw, she’ll bring herself along regardless of what we do.”

 

“Quite right.”

 

_._

 

_Out of all the things that’ve repeated, did Root really need to wear that_ **_ugly_ ** _mustache?_

 

_._

 

“Heard you had to get married today, Lionel.” The snark smoothly came, having been prepared for quite some time now.

 

“Ah, shut up.”

 

The fact that Lionel and Shaw had to go undercover for the latest Number was not something John was going to let him live down.

 

_._

 

“Hey, Finch, listen to this,” He said, investigating something on his phone. Harold glanced in his direction with a mixture of uncertainty and interest. “‘A Mathematician Positive About Large Agriculture Equipment: Protractor.”

 

Harold actually rolled his eyes at the joke, an unusual action that had John chuckling before skimming through another joke.

 

“Better yet, here’s something interesting: A farmer in a field with his counts counted 196 of them, but when he rounded them up he had 200.”

 

At this, a faint snort -- one potentially filled with derision -- sounded at this.

 

“... Mr. Reese, if you are interested in retiring or switching careers and going into some form of agriculture, you need only ask.”

 

This time, he almost said yes.

 

**_._**

 

“Where the hell did you get that, Reese?”

 

The Order of Lenin sat proudly on the desk, gleaming in the train station.

 

“Found this at your place.” She glared at the invasion of privacy, but he knew she’d eventually be grateful for its return to her. “And it made me wonder: “Why do you have an Order of Lenin, Shaw?”

 

“None of your business, Reese.”

 

_._

 

_“Now, why would anyone be interested in an airport guy?”_

 

John paused, trying to remember why such a mundane statement would trigger such a strong feeling of delight. He glanced over at Harold, content to observe in order to understand.

 

“That is an excellent question, Miss Shaw. And, unless I am mistaken, it is also one that you and Miss Groves are currently being paid to figure out.” Harold’s irritation made itself quite clear, reminding John that the man before him really hadn’t been taking care of himself -- and also had been snapping at everyone for the last month.

 

_“Sounds like someone could use a vacation.”_

 

“We don't get the luxury of vacations, Miss Shaw. We get Numbers. And, speaking of your job, are you quite sure you are up to the task today? Or is this badgering some sort of obscure technique you learned from your previous employers?”

 

_Oh. It’s that one._

 

John resisted the urge to deviously smile as he continued to observe Harold. It would be worthwhile to recall what in particular worked so well to relax the man the last time.

 

And, this time, he really was inclined to believe that Shaw and Root could handle themselves.

 

_Though_ , he admitted with a mental sigh, _Harold would still want me to check in on them nevertheless._

 

_._

 

It does strike John at some points that if he were able to travel back in time, then that means other realities had to be possible.

 

It also had to mean that all of his friends -- for that is what he still considered them to all be --- have had to be different. That they’ve had to experienced different times and different actions and different consequences. Maybe they’re all superheroes, maybe they work with private detectives instead of cops. Or they all might be working in a library or some equivalent. Perhaps, it’s more subtle life changes -- like car accidents or people accidentally managing to avoid death --

 

Really, he can only think about this philosophically for a good few minutes before his head starts to spin at the possibility.

 

But then more head spinning occurs because he thinks about Shaw and Root’s potential relationships in said alternate worlds. And John immediately has to put a stop to that train of thought because it’s personal information that he definitely does not need to know.

 

_._

 

Although though Harold had warmed up to the idea of coping with nightmares by sleeping together much sooner this time, it always gave John immense joy whenever the man allowed himself to just fall asleep in his arms.

 

“To sleep, perchance to rest.” Harold would have wryly said, had the man been awake.

 

But, he wasn’t.

 

And that meant more to John than could be stated.

 

_._

 

“I suppose his voice isn’t all that terrible.” She was talking to herself, not having known he too was currently in the station. “A little raspier than I’d like, but tolerable. Now, _hers_ on the other hand...”

 

It was at this point, John knew exactly who Root was talking about.

 

And he really didn’t want to the rest of her thoughts.

 

_._

 

“Next time, Miss Lee,” John watched Harold speak serenely to their latest Number, a first-year college student that went by Cadence Lee. “I would make sure to take at least a college tour before deciding to accept.”

 

_._

 

“Where are you headed off to?” With the snowfalls threatening to drift into the city, now was not the time to be wandering around for kicks. And, since Shaw was the only one who needed to be out in the field for the time being, John didn’t understand why Root was bundling up and heading out the door.

 

She could only roll her eyes at this, not caring to show him the thermos that was waiting to be filled with hot cocoa.

 

“Personal errand.”

 

And with that, she eagerly departs.

 

_._

 

John really didn't want to know why Fusco came back looking like he was covered in egg gunk.

 

Especially since Shaw kept smirking as though she was the cause of it.

 

_._

 

_“Maybe this time,”_

 

_“I'll be happy,”_ The crooning radio was muted within seconds of recognition.

 

“As much as I enjoy _Cabaret_ , today is not the day to do so.” A dry murmur entered the car after a moment of silence, and John turned at this.

 

It had been Harold’s attempt to change the gloomy overtone by listening to a show-tune channel. It was his intention to fill the car with a change in energy.

 

Instead, it brought the faint whispering of dripping bullets and piercing rain drops.

 

But John was more than content to let that particular memory go.

 

_._

 

“No. You can’t just kill them as much as you may or may not want to.”

 

This time, it was a Number that was pulling him back from the ledge.

 

This time, he was the one being helped.

 

“And, why the hell shouldn’t I?” Abuse of any form, cruelty of any type, should never be tolerated. And it was his job to protect, to help others.

 

So when he fails in that but can still punish the criminals, John isn’t really all that inclined to do anything otherwise.

 

“Because,” She said, taking a step forward and calmly grabbing his attention. “As a genius once said,” She thinly smiled, giving herself a moment to do justice to the quotation.

 

“‘The rule of law, it must be held high. And if it falls, you pick it up and hold it even higher.’” Her voice rang out firmly in the space, pulling him back into a more impartial mindset. “‘For all of society, all civilized people, will have nothing to shelter them if it is destroyed.’”

 

It strikes more a chord than he’s willing to admit, and the blinding anger escapes him.

 

“Who said that?”

 

“A concerned private detective.” She said, facetiously echoing his earlier statement.

 

_._

 

When the vigilante arrived back to the station, he felt a flustered air of irritation.

 

“Everything okay, Harold?”

 

The man in question is just muttering under his breath, and John catches something about “who” versus “whom” and how the man “can't possible believe that he fell for such a lowly trick.”

 

“Don't worry, John,” The vigilante proceeded to tense at Root’s voice. “Harry’s just trying to gain a sense of humor.”

 

_._

 

This time, John was especially sure to keep an eye on Bear.

 

It’s true that the Belgian Malinois was always cared for, no matter what was going on. But John wasn’t focused on his physical condition necessarily. He knew the tolls of discomfort could weigh down not only humans but trained dogs, too.

 

And, an abandoned train station would be no place to keep a dog indefinitely.

 

“Bear!” He called over the guard dog in question, affectionately rubbing his fur -- much to the dog’s imminent delight. Fortunately, it seemed like Bear was at home -- whether that home was the Library or even here.

 

And that’s all he could ask for, in the grand scheme of things.

_._

“I told you to get me coffee.” She growled, pinning the other woman against the wall of the station.

 

“This _is_ coffee.” Root coyly responded, completely unaffected by Shaw’s attitude.

 

“When I want coffee that means I want a _large, black coffee._ None of that Starbucks crap.”

 

Root only smirks at this.

 

“Size shouldn’t matter, Sameen.”

 

She then uses her wrist to bring Shaw’s order to her lips. Slowly, the woman takes a sip out of the drink, maintaining that smirk.

 

It’s at this point that John’s decided he can just back away into the shadows and retreat out of the station. He’s realized in this moment that he doesn’t know exactly why Root’s were arousing enough to bring lips crashing into lips.

 

He also decides, as with many of Root’s and Shaw’s moments together, he’s better off not knowing the details.

 

_._

 

_“John,”_ A sing-songy Root spoke through the comm-link. _“Do you like steak?”_

 

_“John doesn't have an opinion, Root.”_

 

_“Oh, really?”_

 

He didn't even have to say a word before a full-out argument broke out between the two women. It was more like tinny banter than anything. But, when the snarky voices starting to turn into snarky flirtations he decided to opt out of listening.

 

_._

 

“Is something wrong, Harold?”

 

The man had been studying his computer screen for an unusually long time, seemingly unfocused on the outside world.

 

“Harold?”

 

No response.

 

“... _Harold?”_

 

“Hmm?” The man forced himself to look in John’s general direction, finally hearing his name.

 

“What have you been looking at?”

 

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Reese, but it completely escaped me that there’s going to be a solar eclipse in 2017!”

 

“Harold…. It’s 2015. Why should we care?”

 

“Because, Mr. Reese, this is a rare solar eclipse: It can only be seen in America. In fact, this eclipse is so extraordinarily rare that people have been booking hotels and planning out that particular day out for years already. For example,” As the man continued to prattle on, John could only chuckle to himself.

 

Go figure that Finch would start to fangirl about this far sooner than before.

 

_._

 

Sometimes, he wondered where some of his own nightmares came from.

 

The moments where he would witness Carter and Fusco embrace corruption.

 

The twists in dreams where Root and Shaw go far beyond mere apathy.

 

The shuddering seconds where Harold does not hesitate to kill.

 

John doesn’t care for them. And, even though they were clearly nightmares…

 

At times they almost feel like _memories_.

 

_._

 

“I won’t ask again.”

 

_And I hate this._

 

He took the phone in silence, refusing to let blood be unnecessarily spilled on his account.

 

Especially because he’d be receiving help in only a few moments.

 

“Mr. Reese?” Dominic paused, letting an icy smirk briefly form. “Of course. I figured Riley wasn’t his real name.”

 

_Don’t look at him. Don’t even look at that fax machine. Don’t even think about--_

 

Nice to meet you, Harold. Can’t wait to start working together.” _Screw you, too, Dominic._

 

John could only imagine Harold’s paranoia growing to an incredibly level of panic. He found himself imagining the man in front of him, knowing exactly what he’d be acting like.

 

“Don’t worry about John. As long as you cooperate, he gets to keep on breathing.”

 

_Don’t you dare listen to him, Harold. If you even think about coming here--_

 

“We’ll send you a new location. Be there in fifteen. _Alone._ ”

 

Even with the knowledge of what was going to happen, John found himself unable to focus on anything other than his own fear. This lack of discipline, of control, wasn’t normal for him.

 

But this is Harold.

 

So, all the bad thoughts were quickly, unwillingly, being committed to memory with ease.

 

_Please, don’t come after me this time, Harold. Please, let me handle this._

 

The conversation ended, and the hint of a smirk regained itself out of the claws of uncertainty.

 

“Looks like we found our Harold.” _Don’t even_ **_think_ ** _about touching him._  “Which means you are no longer needed. Nor you.”

 

Dominic turned to his soldiers. “Put ‘em down. Let’s get the hell out of here.” _Like hell you will._ “ _Mr. Reese_ comes with us”

 

And that’s when the beeping began.

 

_About damn time, too._

 

He casted a disinterested look, content to let the Machine remind him of what he had once memorized.

 

“What the hell is that?”

 

“Old fax machine.”

 

“What does it say?” _That you’re dead, buddy._

 

“Sharp right leg. Left knee, ACL. Tactical blade. Glass jaw.”

 

_Ah, yes. Had forgotten the details for a moment._

 

He swiftly attacked, allowing fury to blend into training and instinct.

 

_“Can. You. Hear. Me?”_

 

_“Hell, yes.”_

 

_._

 

When Bear nudges everyone into a very necessary pack hug -- Carter, Fusco, Shaw, Root, John, and Harold -- it’s all everyone can do not to cry.

 

_._

 

“Can I tell you about my childhood?”

 

It had taken much longer to get to this than John had anticipated.

 

Naturally, that meant his kiss was all the more passionate.

_._

 

John smiled at Henrietta as they all gathered around the table. Hot cocoa and spiked drinks were already served, and a comforting vibe had just started to envelope the room.

 

“Would you like to hear a story?” He had asked her, refraining from grinning at her enthusiastic nodding.

 

“Just make sure that it is an appropriate tale, Mr. Reese.” Harold warned.

 

“Always, Finch.”

 

_After all, it won’t be my fault if Shaw brings orgies into the story again._

 

_._

 

“Harold, where did you get that clock?”

 

“Hmm?” Finch looked over, confused for a brief moment.

 

“Oh, Root gave that to me as a way to help me get up in the morning.”

 

And, as soon as it was possibly, John would be finding a way to break that particular alarm clock.

 

_._

 

More unexpected encounters with people.

 

But this time he was more confused than concerned.

 

“I didn't know you wore glasses, Anthony.”

_._

 

“When did the big lug get so sentimental?”

 

“Probably around the same time the two lovebirds met.”

 

That would have to explain it.

 

After all, Shaw had never met another fellow vigilante that felt so at peace with considering all of his allies to be his family.

 

To the point where they were celebrating Christmas.

 

In a corner of the train station, of course, but it counted for something.

 

But, the fact still stood that _all_ of them were killing machines at one point or another.

 

So, if Reese even tried to call them his official family, she’d be out of there before he could bribe her with tolerable steak.

 

_._

 

“ _Lionel,”_ They were almost at Queensbridge. The detective uneasily glanced back at his partner, unsure of what that tone meant.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It's okay to be happy.” The detective froze in disbelief.

 

Those cynical thoughts had fervently repeated themselves over the last few years, but they hadn’t always around as of late.

 

Fusco had to admit, that guilt shadowed his footsteps better than Wonderboy. And yet, those same shadows left him when he was surrounded by the ever encompassing darkness that was the world.

 

He’d become desensitized to the shame of wanting happiness -- wanting happiness despise the dirt that would always coat his honor. It had now become a mechanical thought, one that had  stopped bothering him a long time ago.

 

Or so he thought.

 

“But, Lionel,”

 

_“Yeah?_ ”

 

“Try to refrain from crying in front of Shaw.” A lazy punch reached out, barely tapping its target.

 

“Thanks for the advice.” It was a deceptively dry remark, as tears threatened to crack through the delicate webs holding him together.

 

But he would manage.

 

They all would.

 

_._

 

“How did you meet Nathan, Harold?”

 

Harold looked up with something of akin to humor, a rare occurrence these days.

 

“Well, he always told this story better than I ever could, Mr. Reese. But,” A playful pause ensues, one that reveals that information is about to be lovingly entrusted. “I suppose I can give it a shot.”

 

John already has all of his attention on Harold.

 

“Now, most people believe that we met at MIT. The truth is a little more… unorthodox,” He began.

 

_._

 

He no longer felt any shame when it came to bugging his friend’s homes. Hadn’t for quite some time, in fact.

 

But, when he awakens to the sounds of Joss clearly thrown into some sort of nightmare -- a nightmare that sounds all too horribly familiar -- he can’t help be tossed into his own demons.

 

For a solid minute, the darkness embraces him in thoughts that she will still die, that everyone he cares about will still be shot down like dogs in the dirt.

 

_“Joss?”_

 

Cal’s voice manages to bring light to the abyss for the both of them.

 

_“Joss, come back to me.”_ What had been turning into harsh breathing and the sound of sobs soon eases into something far kinder. _“It’s okay, Joss. It’s all okay.”_

 

_._

 

“Sam,” He really had a horrible knack for being in the safe house when he was probably better off being somewhere with Harold. “There’s no more simulations. They’re not going to get to us, sweetie.”

 

“You don’t know that!” Came the growl as the two women entered the place. “You have no idea what could happen!”

 

There’s the surprising sound of a kiss occurring, of an embrace being shared.

 

“But, I do, Sameen. I know it’s all going to be alright.”

 

_._

 

It’d been a few days after the wedding of interest, but Reese still had one question.

 

“What’d you think of the wedding, Root?”

 

She glanced at him, letting one of her infamous smirks come to the surface as she spoke.

 

“Quite emotional, John. I think even the cake was in tiers.”

 

He inwardly cringed, only letting an eye slightly bulge at this terrible pun.

 

“... Please don't ever do that again."

_._

 

**“** Lionel, if I don’t make it out of this alive.” Things needed to be said.

 

“Look, buddy,” But the detective was having none of it. “You’re not leaving me behind to deal with Glasses, Butter Nutter, Carter, _or_ Shaw by myself.”

 

“But--”

 

“Nope. I ain’t gonna be the last one to this party.”

_._

 

The nightmares come back, and this time they’re worse.

 

He can see Leon bleeding out on the concrete. Shaw sacrificing herself thousands and thousands of times to protect them. Fusco fading into a shell because he’s the last one standing. Bear getting shot down because of foolish mistakes. Carter gasping for air as she crosses into the afterlife.

 

And, Harold sinking down a wall. Smiling through the rain that soaks him. Reaching out for a hand to take him away from all of this, to finally let go.

 

These moments torment him on a nightly basis. Their voices blend into a depressing sound that brings him  Glitches, Root might have once referred to these nightmares as. Shaw would’ve called them his personal simulations. Fusco would’ve jokingly said that his mind was throwing one hell of a party right now -- emphasis on “hell”.

 

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

_._

 

The nightmares come back, and this time they’re worse.

 

He can see Leon bleeding out on the concrete. Shaw sacrificing herself thousands and thousands of times to protect them. Fusco fading into a shell because he’s the last one standing. Bear getting shot down because of foolish mistakes. Carter gasping for air as she crosses into the afterlife.

 

And, Harold sinking down a wall. Smiling through the rain that soaks him. Reaching out for a hand to take him away from all of this, to finally let go.

 

These moments torment him on a nightly basis. Their voices blend into a depressing sound that brings him  Glitches, Root might have once referred to these nightmares as. Shaw would’ve called them his personal simulations. Fusco would’ve jokingly said that his mind was throwing one hell of a party right now -- emphasis on “hell”.

 

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

 

He doesn’t know if there’s a point to any of this.

 

“Mr. Reese?”

 

All he knows is that he needs to confess.

 

“Harold,” It was raspier than normal, but if this is all about to go to hell he had to just say one thing.

 

“John?”

 

And it’s the unquestioning trust Harold now carries for him that has the exhausted time traveler finally let go.

 

“I have something I’ve been withholding.” He can barely speak, his voice shaking with far more than mere trepidation.

 

Harold just listens as John finally lets go of everything. Listens as his love lays out every single truth, all of the facts, and the reason behind his “impeccable timing”.

 

And, for all of John’s nightmares of this moment finally coming into existence…

 

“It’s okay, John.”

 

The sobs break into the scene, the tension clutches onto stress one more.

 

“It’s okay, John.”

 

And, Harold just continues to listen. Continues to hold his love, to accept his draining burdens, and just listen.

 

He could only hope that would carry them both to the end.

 

_._

 

He couldn’t stop Harold from trying to sacrifice himself.

 

He could save Elias and Anthony, stop Carter and Leon and Root and even Bear from bleeding out.

 

And he still couldn’t stop Harold from trapping him. From playing the “Greater Good” card.

From letting all of that time go to waste.

 

And, if that was still the case, would he be able to stop anything important in the end? Did all that information mean anything in the end? Were they all meant to die?

 

Would all the lives he saved meant that the cost would be the one who mattered the most -- Harold’s?

 

A reminder rings out in the form of a telephone booth he’s just now passing.

 

And, he still keeps going.

 

_._

 

“Mr. Reese! Mr. -- _John!_ ”

 

Blood was still seeping out of his clothes. The gun trembled awkwardly in his hand. And the feeling of horrifying being helpless time after time was past seeping into his core. By this point, he was drenched in the feelings that _always_ accompanied egregious inadequacy.

 

No matter what he did, it seemed that he was never in the right place. John always had spectacular timing, timing that was beyond impeccable. And, while that finally made sense -- seeing as how John was from the future -- it’s just that, well...

 

Harold truly was never destined to have such luck.

 

And, _this_ was something that neither he nor John could have been able to stop. Even with all of their sudden knowledge, even with his own attempt to change the future, it truly seemed to be pointless.

 

Oh, John had tried to warn him not to do this. Not to take their lives into his hand via some sort of sacrifice. But, Harold had been foolish enough to believe that he could in fact do this. That, by changing this, he wouldn’t have to lose anyone. That he wouldn’t have to risk losing--

 

“ _Harold,_ you need to keep moving. I really don't think this is the right place to be.”

 

**_What?_ **

 

_How is this even--_

 

_“_ _\--_ _John_ _?”_

 

But, this wasn't a sweet, taunting hallucination that screamed of a bitterly accepted sacrifice.

 

Sacrifice didn’t result in the fierce pressing of lips, of a gun dropping out of hands that have gripped for life. Death didn’t feel as liberating as the coursing adrenaline and overflowing warmth that now encompassed him because of their embrace.

 

No.

  
This wasn’t sacrifice.

 

This was an offering to escape the cold depressing wax that had been encompassing him for years.

 

This was a comforting umbrella shielding him from the rain.

 

“Harold, why don't we get out of here _before_ the building blows up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a three-year old promise has turned into one of the most memorable and exquisite writing projects I've ever committed to.
> 
> I have to thank each and every reviewer for their kind remarks, my family for pushing me behind the scenes, my wonderful requesters for giving me such fabulous ideas when I was stumped, and you for reading through this entire piece.
> 
> It has been my absolute pleasure to go through with this project until the very and I truly hope it’s been an enjoyable time for you. And, I am definitely looking forward to writing for you all again.
> 
> Till next time, my dears ♥


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